Quotes About Emotion

I used to have a fantasy you loved me. Then I had a fantasy some man could love me. Now I can't find any fantasy inside my head. I can't find anything.

She loved him that much, in a way that made no space for herself, as though he were a full glass of tea and she was the piece of ice that would cause an overspill onto the tablecloth.

She tried to sound casual and upbeat but in her heart she felt a sudden bleakness.

But you're worth crying over. So i've decided you're staying here with me all night - or at least until I've given you twenty-seven orgasms.' Gina found herself a bit breathless. 'Twenty-seven? That's a very specific number.' 'I'm a very specific sort of man. Now each up.

She once complained that her stories were like 'birds bred in cages,' but that concentrated atmosphere, that claustrophobic hothouse of emotion, was her talent. Her stories were little masterpieces of compression: she succinctly contained whole lifetimes in a few pages, every moment loaded with as much as it could bear.

Feeling normal for any extended period of time raises hopes that turn out, almost invariably, to be writ on water.

An ardent temperament makes one very vulnerable to dreamkillers.

But if love is not the cure, it certainly can act as a very strong medicine.

Grief, however, creates a strange sensitivity. The world is too intense to tolerate: a veil, a drink, another anesthetic is required to blot out the ache of what remains. One sees too much and feels it, as Robert Lowell puts it, with one skin-layer missing.

While she might not have opted for this illness, neither does she entirely regret it; she prefers, as she writes so movingly, a life ofpassionate turbulence to one of tedious calm.

It has been said that grief is a kind of madness. I disagree. There is a sanity to grief, in its just proportion of emotion to cause, that madness does not have. I know madness well, but I understood little of grief and I was not always certain which was grief and which was madness. Grief, as it transpires has its own territory.

posthumous Piano Sonata in B-flat, D. 960. Its haunting

Eventually, the depression went away of its own accord, but only long enough for it to regroup and mobilize for the next attack.

Reading, which had been at the heart of my intellectual and emotional existence

Humor and absorption on friends'faces are replaced by fear and concern.

Schubert's posthumous Piano Sonata in B-flat, D. 960. Its

Language, on the other hand, newer to the brain, may be more linked to those parts that regulate dopamine and thereby connected to pleasure.

and increased energy)

It is well that war is so terrible: we should grow too fond of it.

The horror of profound depression, and the hopelessness that usually accompanies it, are hard to imagine for those who have not experienced them. Because the despair is private, it is resistant to clear and compelling description.

My daddy is a mistake for a person.

There was something very special, but it wasn't inside Josie. It was inside those who loved her.

Memory is quite central for me. Part of it is that I like the actual texture of writing through memory...

What he wanted was not just to hear about Hailsham, but to remember Hailsham, just like it had been his own childhood. He knew he was close to completing and so that's what he was doing: getting me to describe things to him, so they'd really sink in, so that maybe during those sleepless nights, with the drugs and the paint and the exhaustion, the line would blur between what were my memories and what were his.