Best 2079 quotes in «emotion quotes» category

For even the best err in words when they are meant to mean most delicate and almost inexpressible things.

For Sayonara, literally translated, 'Since it must be so,' of all the good-bys I have heard is the most beautiful. Unlike the Auf Wiedershens and Au revoirs, it does not try to cheat itself by any bravado 'Till we meet again,' any sedative to postpone the pain of separation. It does not evade the issue like the sturdy blinking Farewell. Farewell is a father's good-by. It is - 'Go out in the world and do well, my son.' It is encouragement and admonition. It is hope and faith. But it passes over the significance of the moment; of parting it says nothing. It hides its emotion. It says too little. While Good-by ('God be with you') and Adios say too much. They try to bridge the distance, almost to deny it. Good-by is a prayer, a ringing cry. 'You must not go - I cannot bear to have you go! But you shall not go alone, unwatched. God will be with you. God's hand will over you' and even - underneath, hidden, but it is there, incorrigible - 'I will be with you; I will watch you - always.' It is a mother's good-by. But Sayonara says neither too much nor too little. It is a simple acceptance of fact. All understanding of life lies in its limits. All emotion, smoldering, is banked up behind it. But it says nothing. It is really the unspoken good-by, the pressure of a hand, 'Sayonara.

For her, sex was nothing more than an itch. And this phsychological and physiological neutrality of hers at once relieved her of so many human emotions and sentiments and desires. Sexual neutrality was the essence of coldness in an individual. It was a great and wonderful thing to be born with.

For once the crofter was at a a rather loss for words, for to him nothing has ever been more completely unintelligible than the reasoning that is bred of tears.

Fortunate boys! No pains have been spared to make your lives emotionally easy_to preserve you, so far as that is possible, from having emotions at all.

Francie had heard swearing since she had heard words. Obscenity and profanity had no meaning as such among those people. They were emotional expressions of inarticulate people with small vocabularies; they made a kind of dialect. The phrases could mean many things according to the expression and tone used in saying them. So now, when Francie heard themselves called lousy bastards, she smiled tremulously at the kind man. She knew that he was really saying, “Goodbye—God bless you.

Foreign to knowledge, mystery to senses, alien to emotion: LOVE.

Geraldine keeps her eyes trained on him as she slowly reaches into her purse, wrapping her fingers around her gun. “…Callo, I’m so sorry that your life ended up this way,” she sighs as she gets out of her side of the car, her feet burning from the cold as her high heels sink into the fallen snow. “Aren’t you scared?” “I’m you, Geraldine… I fell into the same trap as you, anyway,” Callo answers. His large eyes are shining with tears, but he doesn’t seem afraid in the least. “…The dead don’t feel anything, you know… not even guilt or regret. So, what is there to be afraid of?

..giving power to negative thoughts or fears was bringing ideas to life in physical world,idea in mind became emotion in heart,emotion turned into words spoken,written,painted,strummed across guitar strings,or vibrantly held note by Tibetan singing bowl, thoughts affected physical world.

Goals doesn't leave you like men, goals wait, they wait for their achievers.

God doesn't want meerly action but hearts driving action.

God is basically an emotion, nothing less nothing more.

Granville did not come to enquire after me, as I had known he would not. I had always considered him made awkward by painful emotion, but now I considered that perhaps hew as only unfeeling.

Fulfilment does not mean our difficult emotions disappear; it means we change our relationship with them.

Great emotional singing isn't a destination, it's a journey, one to be taken time and again to different places with different moods and different audiences.

Growing up, coming to terms with, and living through the complications of Diabetes.

Good conversation is the equivalent of shared emotion.

Haiku does not express emotion from the inside out by displaying the mind of a character. Haiku builds the emotional thrust, makes the artistic statement from the outside in, from the physical world to the mind of the reader.

Hate can be a deeply stimulating emotion. The world becomes easier to understand and much less terrifying if you divide everything and everyone into friends and enemies, we and they, good and evil. The easiest way to unite a group isn't through love, because love is hard, It makes demands. Hate is simple. So the first thing that happens in a conflict is that we choose a side, because that's easier than trying to hold two thoughts in our heads at the same time. The second thing that happens is that we seek out facts that confirm what we want to believe - comforting facts, ones that permit life to go on as normal. The third is that we dehumanize our enemy.

Guy’s don't usually cry, but when they do, nobody can realize that what they have been going through.

Hate is a conscious emotion, but we rarely express it openly. Identifying hate in oneself is probably even more difficult than identifying love. Hate must not be confused with anger. It is very different. Hate has no reasons. Often, it just sits deep in our body, rarely expending itself in a way that we can identify. Hate must be dispensed with periodically, when the object of hate is no longer there, hate cannot thrive, and the mind becomes hollow and without purpose.

Gratitude becomes spiritual, a spiritual virtue and a spiritual emotion, when we are moved in our response by a God-centered view of the three: gift, recipient, and giver. – p. 56

Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness.

Heart language is logic set on fire.

Hate is a very strong, pure emotion to be wasted on people you don't care about.

He forced himself into good spirits.

He felt the inability to grieve as a terrible flaw.

He had no ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in the past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving admiration among those who came within speech of him.

He’d always loved this land, loved how his family had tamed it. It was as much a part of him as his blood. Being involved with him meant moving back here. Being surrounded by bad memories.

Her gaze traveled across the western sky that was dotted with clouds and was held by the wintry looking sun, so pure, so lovely, and so impossible to touch. Sheila felt that that was how her love was - Out of reach, unquestionably warm, and as certain as the celestial ball.

He rises off the bed and tries to speak, but cannot stop the pain in his throat, and cannot articulate a word, capable only of an animal sound, a strangulated wheeze that shocks him deeply, enraging him, this sudden loss of the faculty of speech that feels somehow bestial and low.

Her room was warm and lightsome. A huge doll sat with her legs apart in the copious easy-chair beside the bed. He tried to bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid her gown, noting the proud conscious movements of her perfumed head. As he stood silent in the middle of the room she came over to him and embraced him gaily and gravely. Her round arms held him firmly to her and he, seeing her face lifted to him in serious calm and feeling the warm calm rise and fall of her breast, all but burst into hysterical weeping. Tears of joy and relief shone in his delighted eyes and his lips parted though they would not speak. She passed her tinkling hand through his hair, calling him a little rascal. —Give me a kiss, she said. His lips would not bend to kiss her. He wanted to be held firmly in her arms, to be caressed slowly, slowly, slowly. In her arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and fearless and sure of himself. But his lips would not bend to kiss her. With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.

Her tears fell abundantly--but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma's eyes--and she listened to her and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding--really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two--and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. It was rather too late in the day to set about being simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life.

Hey there!

His eyes searched hers. “I’d rather just be me. Feel comfortable in my own skin and be able to speak my mind without having to carry a damned thesaurus. Sure doesn’t seem worth giving up who you are to please others. Far as I’m concerned, they either like me or they don’t. Their choice.

He crooked a finger beneath her chin and lifted until she met his gaze. Her skin was just as soft as he remembered, and her lips just as full. Only the distress in her eyes was new. At least that was something he could fix

He looked at her and could see she was trembling, her face even paler than usual and her eyes wide and vulnerable. His heart went out to her and he reached towards her, gathering her much smaller hand into his. “It’s OK Rosa. Whatever you have to say to me, it’s OK. Don’t be afraid – nothing will come between us now.

He thought perhaps it was a woman's way, to come out of such a storm of emotion and pain as if she were a ship emerging onto calm seas. She had seemed, not at peace, but emptied of sorrow. As if she had run out of that particular emotion and no other one arose to take its place.

He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer- excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained observer to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his.

His emotions are not for men, they are for his vision.

His gut was stitched up good and tight, but that didn’t prevent it from flopping. He wiped his damp palms on the legs of his jeans and stood up shakily, leaning heavily on his cane. He called himself a masochist for putting himself through this torture day after day. He braced himself for the disappointment of having to go home alone. He braced himself for happiness like he’d never known in his entire life. He watched the door they would come through.

His ideas assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is peculiar to despair.

His thought processes imploded when she grabbed his ass, her nails digging in a way that set his body on fire. He loved the way her breath was hot on his cheek, the way her eyes had gone unfocused and fluttered closed, her lashes resting softly on her cheeks. She was here and for tonight, this weekend, she was his.

Hold mirth tight against your breast, but answer every injury with bladed heart.

His targets had little in common, other than that they had somehow aroused his enmity.

Home is an emotional state, a place in the imagination where feelings of security, belonging, placement, family, protection, memory and personal history abide. -Thomas Moore

Hope is sure and steadfast trust.

How beautiful it is to feel that what you cannot describe?

Hoe krijg je intimiteit in taal? Hoe wordt de roman die ook een film is toch weer een roman met alle typisch romanachtige kanten ervan? En hoe krijg je léven in die roman? Er moet een relatie zijn tussen taal en het andere; de wereld van vlees en bloed daarbuiten. Die laatste kant had ik misschien te weinig ontwikkeld. Ik word tegenwoordig soms zo overvallen door de gekste emoties, of liever gezegd: door verlangen naar die emoties.

How can you meet and speak to any human being and not have feelings for them? This whole world is nothing if you feel nothing.