Quotes About Emotion

Every moment he was with me, I felt a rushing in my throat, which was my love for him, so great sometimes I could not speak.

Yet some say lovers are mad.

Such passive, pale words for what she was.

That is my mother's lyre,' I almost said. The words were in my mouth, and behind them others crowded close. 'That is my lyre.

he buired his face in his hands and did not speak. i held him and whispered all the bits of broken comfort i could find.

I knew how pleasure looked on him.

I will never leave him. It will be this, always, for as long as he will let me. If I had words to speak such a thing, I would have. But there were none that seemed big enough for it, to hold that swelling truth.

It was almost like fear, in the way it filled me, rising in my chest. It was almost like tears, in how swiftly it came. But it was neither of those, buoyant where they were heavy, bright where they were dull.

It is the little thing, the unrehearsed gesture, the catch in the breath, the droop of the lip, the start of surprise, which really reveals. We may analyze ourselves in volumes and remain undiscovered; and then – by a yawn, a tilt of the head, a sob of exhaustion, a flash of hate - we are betrayed and unmasked forever.

Thus, in the huge compensatory ebb and flow of great creative Nature, one tension of human feeling has the power of ejecting, or completely cancelling, another strain of feeling. For the emotional tension of a frustrated passion there is no better cure than to spend an hour or two in the presence of terrible bodily anguish.

It occurred to him that seeing a woman's child is like seeing a woman naked, in the way it changes how her face looks to you, how her face becomes less the whole story.

But is this not what poetry must do? To say the nothing that cannot be said?

Molly Bea, she of the hard white breasts lightly dusted with golden freckles, would never be so humiliated by life because she could never become as deeply involved in the meaty toughness of life. She would never be victimized by her own illusions because they were not essential to her. She could always find new ones when the old ones wore out. But Cathy was stuck with hers. The illusion of love, magically changed to a memory of shame.

For once her new placidity was impaired.

Who are you? What do you want? Who are you?" Her voice was light and fast and intense and her mouth trembled. She seemed to be on the narrow edge of emotional disaster, holding herself in check with the greatest effort. And about her was a rich and heavy scent of brandy, and an unsteadiness, the eyes too swift and not exactly in focus.

If caught, he would feel fury and indignation at the game ending too soon.

There had been a slight flavor of childishness in her outbursts, a little of petulance, but it was mostly a mature woman in that special area of pain reserved, in irony, for those who know how to give.

I am two fools, I know, For loving, and for saying so.

Love, built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

Heya mola, heya mola diye ÅŸark? söylüyorlard? bara yaslanm??, bulant?yla baÅŸ edebilmek için ÅŸarap içerken.

Love is a passion which kindles honor into noble acts.

What passion cannot music raise or quell

For Life is the means, but Love's the end. [IV.4.73]

Music is the exultation of Poetry. Both of them may excel apart but... are most excellent when they are joined.