I don't think anyone can listen to a Smiths song and not scream your lungs out in recognition of what it's like to feel odd.
Perhaps the better word is emotional yes, I am an emotional man.
Who would recognize the unhappy if grief had no language?
If you don't think you're hurt, then you aren't
You can't heal what you can't feel!
I think that public grieving is a good thing. People need to be grieved; loss needs to be acknowledged publicly, because it helps to confer a sense of reality on the loss but also because it makes it known that this was a real life.
We believe that one day Emotion AI will be ubiquitous, embedded on chips in our devices, ingrained into technology we use every day at home and at work.
Isn't it weird that I'm getting all emotionable?
The recognition of pain and fear in others give rise in us to pity, and in our pity is our humanity, our redemption.
If we deny emotion, we lose all touch with our internal universe.
We've done fMRI scans of people taking the 'Reading the Eyes' test, and what we've found is that the amygdala lights up in trying to figure out people's thoughts and feelings. In people with autism, they show highly reduced amygdala activity.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
Reading was not just an escape or a Band-Aid; it was a deep form of feeling seen and recognized, and being able to see and recognize other kindred spirits. My dad was a writer, too, which also likely had something to do with that.
I think you have to deal with grief in the sense that you have to recognize that you have it, and say that it's OK to have all the sadness.
That's me, I'm emotional.
I did not know I loved you until I heard myself telling so, for one instance I thought, "Good God, what have I said?" and then I knew it was true.
There hadn’t been one specific moment. It was like gradualy waking up. You go from being asleep to the space between dreaming and awake and then into consciousness. It’s a slow process, but when you’re awake, there’s no mistaking it. There was no mistaking that it had been love.
What you don't see and don't acknowledge in yourself, you project onto someone else.
The human need for language is not simply for the transmission of meaning, it is at the same time listening to and affirming a person's existence.
Maybe it’s not, in the end, the virtues of others that so wrenches our hearts as it is the sense of almost unbearably poignant recognition when we see them at their most base, in their sorrow and gluttony and foolishness. You need the virtues, too—some sort of virtues—but we don’t care about Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina or Raskolnikov because they’re good. We care about them because they’re not admirable, because they’re us, and because great writers have forgiven them for it.
When repeated difficulties do arise, our first spiritual approach is to acknowledge what is present, naming, softly saying 'sadness, sadness', or 'remembering, remembering', or whatever.
Believe me, I'm no romantic, and while I've heard all about love at first sight, I've never believed in it, and I still don't. But even so, there was something there, something recognizably real, and I couldn't look away.
You cannot know what you do not feel.
A clear understanding of negative emotions dismisses them.
When Shakespeare wrote, he wrote for the people. I know he got commissioned by kings and queens, but he also actually was writing plays for people to go and see, to take them on a journey of recognition so that they could see themselves within the characters on the stage. We as actors and theater companies and film companies have forgotten that.
