Quotes About Emotion

Marianne's face was streaked with tears that glistened like acid and her skin was drained of color and she could not bring herself to look at Dr. Oakley behind his desk, nor at Corrine.

She wasn't in love but she would love him, if that would save her. She'd never loved any man, she was a good girl but she would love that man if it would save her.

Aún resuena en su interior, en lo más hondo de su matriz, el oscuro placer de la penetración. Como un lamento.

Love is what can't be helped. When it waxes, and when it wanes.

The only love that matters is the absolute unreasonable unqualified and unearned love - the love you'd absorbed into the very pores of your being as a child, scarcely aware of your good fortune.

left the house in time to catch the bus. Lorraine called goodbye after her as always but Tippi scarcely glanced back, and her voice was flat, almost inaudible—"Bye, Mom.

Traição é uma coisa dolorosa. Traição é a ferida mais profunda. Traição é o que resta do amor depois que o amor acaba.

Mulheres eram especialistas em chorar, assim como os homens eram humilhados e impedidos de chorar. Mulheres eram purificadas pelo choro, assim como os homens eram maculados e manchados pelo choro.

Except Marianne, who smiled vaguely.

And that smell of masculine indignation, rage like something singed.

She is frightened but she is thrilled. She is thrilled but she is frightened.

Where there is passion there is argument.

as men were smudged and stained by crying.

It is the most horrific thought—my husband died among strangers.

Poetry is what frightens. It is rare, and worth waiting for.

Yet I remember little. Or nothing. A chloroformed handkerchief, perhaps; a stinging & burning sensation afterward, when required to make water—(as Nanny called it); ah, is it not distasteful, ugly—& too trifling to be recalled.)

The curse of the female, to so badly need love.

fear in her eyes that were a damp blurred blue Patrick would afterward recall

When her lover had loved her she'd been beautiful. When she'd been beautiful her lover had lover her. It was a simple proposition, a seemingly tautological proposition, yet it resisted full comprehension.

God dies if he is not loved but I was not loved and I did not die.

And he'd died because that life had mattered to him.

She felt everything too deeply, it was like the world was too much for her.

She was in love with love.

Sex is a drug, Eleanor had told me. When sex enters into a situation, people lose all reason. They do things they would never do otherwise. These things they do may be crazy. May even be dangerous. May break their hearts, or someone else's... The real drug, I came to believe, was love.