Quotes About Emotion

She pressed the veil against her cheeks, letting it drink up her tears.

Is to be in love with blue, then, to be in love with a disturbance? Or is the love itself the disturbance? And what kind of madness is it anyway, to be in love with something constitutionally incapable of loving you back?

As if keening on your knees were somehow obscene As if there were a control so marvelous you could teach it to eat pain.

We don't get to choose what or whom we love, I want to say. We just don't get to choose.

We ought to say a feeling of and, a feeling of if, a feeling of but, and a feeling of by, quite as readily as we say a feeling of blue or a feeling of cold. We ought to, but we don't—or at least, we don't quite as readily. But the more you do, the more quickly you can recognize the feeling when it comes around again, and hopefully you won't need to stare as long.

But if I were honest, or if I were at least to bump into the limits of my honesty, I would have to admit that I knew exactly how this love would end from the moment it began. The loss was probably before it was possible.

Psychology forces everything we call love into the pathological or the delusional or the biologically explicable, that if that I was feeling wasn't love then I am forced to admit that I don't know what love is, or, more simply, that I loved a bad man.

and I am missing you in the way that spreads. I'm trying to wear my freedom like an amulet, make it something I'll never forget.

I am trying to talk about what blue means, or what it means to me, apart from meaning.

Goethe describes blue as lively color, but one devoid of gladness. "It may be said to disturb rather than enliven.". Is to be in love with blue, then, to be in love with a disturbance? And what kind of madness is it anyway, to be in love with something constitutionallu incapable of loving you back?

Love is not consolation," she wrote. "It is light." All right then, let me try to rephrase. When I was alive, I aimed to be a student not of longing but of light.

Uno de los hombres pregunta «¿por qué azul?». La gente me pregunta eso con frecuencia. Nunca sé cómo responder. No podemos elegir qué o a quién amamos, quisiera decir. Simplemente no elegimos.

I want you to know, if you ever read this, there was a time when I would rather have had you by my side than any one of these words; I would rather have had you by my side than all the blue in the world.

This is a simple story, but it spooks me, insofar as it reminds me that the eye is simply a recorder, with or without our will. Perhaps the same could be said of the heart. But whether there is a violence at work here remains undecided.

If a color could deliver hope, does it follow that it could also bring despair?

81. What I know: when I met you, a blue rush began. I want you to know, I no longer hold you responsible.

That's my depression talking. It's not "me." 89. As if we could scrape the color off the iris and still see.

We were dancing the way people dance when they are telling each other how they want to make love.

En ocasiones me preocupa que si no me siento conmovida por alguna cosa azul es porque estoy completamente desolada, o muerta. Algunas veces finjo mi entusiasmo. Otras, me temo que soy incapaz de comunicar lo profundo que es.

But what goes on in you when you talk about colour as if it were a cure, when you have not yet stated your disease.

It often happens that we treat pain as if it were the only real thing, or at least the most real thing: when it comes round, everything before it, around it, and, perhaps, in front of it, tends to seem fleeting, delusional.

Nonetheless, as Billie Holiday knew, it remains the case that to see blue in deeper and deeper saturation is eventually to move toward darkness.

Joan Mitchell—abstract painter

Les Bluets, which she painted in 1973