Quotes About Emotion

Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.

The receding perspective of my past smothers my present. Remembering is the malignancy that feasts on my now.

No matter how good a story is, there is more at stake in the telling.

Remembering is the malignancy that feasts on my now.

My heart had momentarily found its pestle.

When he played, though—when he played he could liquefy your soul. He walked on water—well, his fingers did—liquid supple and fluid smooth, running, dripping, flowing.

Other people are hazy phenomena that become corporeal only in my memories.

I can relate to Marguerite Duras even though I'm not French, nor have I been consumed by love for an East Asian man. I can life inside Alice Munro's skin. But I can't relate to my own mother. My body is full of sentences and moments, my heart resplendent with lovely turns of phrases, but neither is able to be touched by another.

I know. You think you love art because you have a sensitive soul. Isn't a sensitive soul simply a means of transforming a deficiency into proud disdain?

Sex, like art, can unsettle a soul, can grind a heart in a mortar. Sex, like literature, can sneak the other within one's walls, even if for only a moment, a moment before one immures oneself again.

In a mind all logic is like a knife blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it.

Love is the only reality and it is not a mere sentiment. It is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation.

Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.

Love is not a mere impulse, it must contain truth, which is law.

In Art, man reveals himself and not his objects.

I have lost my dewdrop", cries the flower to the morning sky that lost all its stars

Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master!

The world loved man when he smiled. The world became afraid of him when he laughed.

Why did the flower fade? I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded.

Tell him Sudha has not forgotten him.

When the knife was busy with my life's most intimate tie, my mind was so clouded with fumes of intoxicating gas that I was not in the least aware of what a cruel thing was happening. Possibly this is woman's nature. When her passion is roused she louses her sensibility for all that is outside it. When, like the river, we women keep to our banks, we give nourishment with all that we have: when we overflow them we destroy with all that we are.

The song being great in its own wealth, why should it wait upon the words? Rather does it begin where mere words fail. Its power lies in the region of the inexpressible; it tells us what the words cannot.

Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine of pain.

In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life.