Quotes About Emotion

When you're in the sciences, when you know about things like neuronal biochemistry and the complex interplay between, say, hormones and emotion, you might imagine you have a deep understanding of the mind. 'Explain to me why I feel this way, think this way, dream this way, am this way.' But consider it: Would you really want to know?

I think she might cry. In her way, she is.

Yes, she was his angel. But can't you guess, my love? She was his demon too.

Any man can be led by desire, Soph. But desire isn't love. Don't make the mistake of thinking it is.

Desire made fools of us all, did it not? What was more controlling than unconsummated desire? What but wanting sent men on fatal quests or led them to begin senseless wars? What else led to thievery or murder? It wasn't desire that was the enemy, but the inability to assuage it. Desire was only an emotion. It was no more evil than love.

For so delicious were the words she'd sung, it seem'd he had lov'd them a whole summer long.

I felt something swell in me then. It wasn't desparate, or triumphant, or any of the things I was used to feeling around men. This was quiet and thrilling, and new. It felt like it might spill out from me, and fill whole rooms. It felt like gladness.

His eyes were that curious shade of hazel that made her think of sunshine and toffee, caramel and whiskey, sweetness and sin all at once, and they were fixed on her with so much heat. So much intent. And she knew he was right. This was her moment, here and now....

He'd never met a woman who blushed as much as she did. He didn't know anyone could blush as much as she did. It fascinated him.

A woman's orgasm is such a fragile thing, dependant as much upon her mind as on her clitoris.

I had no words to give him. No explanation. I didn't understand it, myself. It scared me, but then so do roller coasters, and I ride them anyway, too.

He hadn't been her first lover or the first boy to give her an orgasm. He hadn't even been the first she'd loved. He'd been the first to turn her inside out with something as simple as a smile. The first to make her doubt herself. He'd taken her deeper than anyone ever had, and yet she hadn't drowned.

The word love has always tasted like the scent of fresh ink and soft paper to me. Like a newly written poem.

They were all you, to me. All of them were you.

There seemed to be so much to say, but no words adequate to say it.

Bess had become the ocean, always breaking against the rocks but never staying broken. Her love was the ocean, too, endless and always changing, yet forever the same.

We look at each other without saying anything, both of us smiling like idiots. I heart is so full I can't believe it can possibly still beat without bursting right in front of me. My desire for him is so fierce I'm afraid to stand, because I know my knees will be too weak to hold me up, but there's more than that. This great and bursting thing inside me is love.

I'm in love with him, & I think I've known that for a long time, but now I can't stop myself from admitting it. I love the way he dances for me, trying to make me laugh, not caring if he looks a little like a fool. He is adorable and charming, and the breath leaves my lungs and my heart forgets to beat, moment after moment. I love him. I love him. I love him.

The well of my heart is a very deep place, and at the bottom, it's dark. He was my ocean, and I didn't know if I would drown until I learned how well I could swim.

I murmur something that sounds like "goodbye" but tastes like "hello.

Tears disturb and confuse men, but women know the relief they can bring. I didn't cry because I couldn't deal with my life, but because I could.

Sex makes bumble-tongued fools even out of the most eloquent, but the beauty of it is that it also tunes our ears to hear the meaning of words that, spoken under other circumstances, would make us laugh or cry or frown.

I feel the weight of his gaze all over me, covering me like a blanket.

We can't stop staring at each other. Saying nothing, nothing to say. I trace the curve of his jaw and throat, the sweet spot below his ear, with only my eyes, because he's too faraway to touch. We stare and we stare and I can't stop myself from smiling, because he's smiling, too. We don't have to speak to have this conversation; in fact, the only way to have it is by not using words.