Quotes About Emotion

Hope offered, then denied. A particular cruelty.

the pain of neuralgia…she knew what they thought. That she was cold. Couldn't feel. But in fact she felt too much. Too deeply.

What killed people wasn't a bullet, a blade, a fist to the face. What killed people was a feeling. Left too long. Sometimes in the cold, frozen. Sometimes buried and fetid. And sometimes on the shores of a lake, isolated. Left to grow old, and odd.

Are you enjoying your suffering? You must be, to hold on to it so tightly.

Fear lives in the head. And courage lives in the heart. The job is to get from one to the other.

How do your poems start out?" "They start as a lump in the throat," she said. "Isn't that normally just a cocktail olive lodged there?" Olivier asked. "Once," Ruth admitted. "Wrote quite a good poem before I coughed it up.

Plenty of time for a close friendship to turn to hate. As only a good friendship could. The conduit to the heart was already created.

And yet,' Gamache continued in a pleasant voice, 'isn't that what's often taught in meditation? Not the absence of emotion, or swallowing them, but not allowing them to run the show?

C. S. Lewis wrote that we can create situations in which we are happy, but we cannot create joy. It just happens.

Control your thoughts and you can control your emotions. Do you trust me?

Hope itself wasn't necessarily kind. Or a good thing.

She painted what appeared to be portraits, but that was only on the surface. The beautifully rendered flesh stretched, and sometimes sagged, over wounds, over celebrations. Over chasms of loss and rushes of joy. She painted peace and despair. All in one portrait. With brush and canvas and oils, Clara both captured and freed her subject.

She'd forgotten to love, but she also forgot to hate. (about Clara's mother, who had dementia)

but you can never say it too often. You can never let someone know too often that they're precious, that they're missed.

What kills can't be seen, the Chief had warned Beauvoir. That's what makes it so dangerous. It's not a gun or a knife or a fist. It's not anything you can see coming. It's an emotion. Rancid, spoiled. And waiting for a chance to strike.

Mais non. What?' 'Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic and Egotistical,' he said, slightly embarrassed about using a swear word in front of such a dignified woman,

You gave him The Gashlycrumb Tinies?" asked Stephen. "By Edward Gorey? Oh, I think I really do love you," he said to Ruth.

Jean Guy Beauvoir was loosely wrapped but tightly wound.

Fear lives in the head. And courage lives in the heart. The job is to get from one

And I would never, ever mock the power of love. But it can also distort. Slip over into desperation and delusion.

But Beauvoir could feel what Ruth was sensing. Something was radiating off Gamache. Was it rage he felt from the chief? Jean-Guy wondered. It certainly wasn't fear. It was actually, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, extreme calm.

Je me souviens,

But Beauvoir could feel what Ruth was sensing. Something was radiating off Gamache. Was it rage he felt from the chief? Jean-Guy wondered. It certainly wasn't fear. It was actually, Beauvoir realized with some surprise, extreme calm. He was like the center of gravity in the room.

That we could forget the good and only remember the