Anything that begins 'I don't know how to tell you this' is never good news.
How shall I ever tell Aunt Shaw?' she whispered, after some time of delicious silence. 'Let me speak to her.' 'Oh, no! I owe it to her, - but what will she say?' 'I can guess. Her first exclamation will be, "That man!" ' 'Hush!' said Margaret, 'or I shall try and show you your mother's indignant tones as she says, "That woman!"
You can't express emotion without giving information.
Look, I need to tell you something,' I continued. The words came stumbling out of me. 'I couldnt stand it if...I dont want you to---' Percy?' she said. 'You look like you're going to be sick.' And that's how I felt.
I tell my piano the things I used to tell you
Okay, okay.” I set my hand on top of his and guide it to my chest, so it’s right over my heart. “Feel my heartbeat. Can you feel it?” “Yes.” “Feel how steady it is?” “It’s fast.” “Yes, well, that has nothing to do with the box.” I wince as soon as I’m done speaking. I just admitted to something. Hopefully he doesn’t realize that.
I'm just going to jump and say:hey Mom, Dad, I'm gay, What's for dessert?
The greatest part of intimate confidences proceed from a desire either to be pitied or admired.
It is remarkable how a man cannot summarize his thoughts in even the most general sort of way without betraying himself completely, without putting his whole self into it, quite unawares, presenting as if in allegory the basic themes and problems of his life.
I'm just not very comfortable talking about my emotions on a normal, day-to-day basis.
Why has everything got to be about feelings these days? In the old days, no one knew what anyone was feeling and, what's more, they weren't expected to.
Mostly, I don't write overtly personal stuff.
I always feel vulnerable talking about the poetry aspect of my career because it's little diary entries that I need to sometimes close read, and to reveal that much, it's a bit nerve-racking.
To tell you my thoughts is to locate myself in a category. To tell you about my feelings is to tell you about me.
When you write, you're always revealing a difficult part of yourself. It may not be a part of yourself that looks as difficult - there are parts that look more difficult - but in fact, they are all difficult, and you get kind of used to doing that. It is sort of the nature of the thing.
She knew that even pain can be confessed, but to confess happiness is to stand naked, delivered to the witness.
In love we are not only liable to betray ourselves, but also the secrets of others.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.
Women are really emotional creatures, and men are kind of closed in terms of emotions. I think women are just a lot more out there.
Am I now supposed to go on Oprah and cry and tell you my deepest, darkest secrets because you want to know?
I'd written Smashed not because I was ambitious and not because writing down my feelings was cathartic (it felt more like playing one's own neurosurgeon sans anesthesia). No. I'd made a habit--and eventually a profession--of memoir because I hail from one of those families where shows of emotions are discouraged.
For all men live by truth, and stand in need of expression. In love, in art, in avarice, in politics, in labor, in games, we study to utter our painful secret. The man is only half himself, the other half is his expression.
By the way, I know about the kiss." Then the door clicks shut behind him.
The freedom of saying anything to him, telling all, relieved a burden I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying. In my relentless push to keep moving forward, there had been so many emotions I hadn't let myself inhabit fully, so many things I hadn't talked about. Now I couldn't quite catch up to myself.
... all this talking, this rather liquid confessing, was something I didn't think I could ever bring myself to do. It seemed foolhardy to me, like an uncooked egg deciding to to come out of its shell: there would be a risk of spreading out too far, turning into a formless puddle.
