Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.
Anger: an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.
Nothing haunts us like the things we don't say.
Unexpressed emotions will never die. They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.
I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my life to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good-bye.
A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief, Which finds no natural outlet or relief, In word, or sigh, or tear.
I tried to continue, but somehow my throat made up its mind to swallow – though I can’t think what I was swallowing, unless it was a little knot of emotion I pushed back down because there was no room in my face for any more.
Anger cannot be dishonest.
She smiled at Coraline, as if it had been a very long time since she had smiled and she had almost, but not quite, forgotten how.
I think if we all acted the way we felt, four out of eight people at a dinner table would be sitting there sobbing.
Rage cannot be hidden, it can only be dissembled. This dissembling deludes the thoughtless, and strengthens rage and adds, to rage, contempt.
What cannot be said, will get wept.
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Mum had pumped me so full of anger, I couldn't throw it off.
There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.
Now I am silent, hate Up to my neck, Thick, thick. I do not speak.
If people only knew how much I secretly hated them, they'd love me for holding it in.
Hate's a growing thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas onto life, of forcing one's deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas.
What's wrong with being angry? There's a lot of stuff to be angry about. If you're angry, anger covers pain. I don't know if you can truly deal with pain.
The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.
I long to ride a bike, dance, whistle, look at the world, feel young and know that I'm free, and yet I can't let it show. Just imagine what would happen if all eight of us were to feel sorry for ourselves or walk around with the discontent clearly visible on our faces. Where would that get us?
You're so calm and quiet, you never say. But there are things inside you. I see them sometimes, hiding in your eyes.
I like the idea of contained emotion because I grew up most of my life feeling that way. As an adolescent, people would always say I was not expressive, and they always made the mistake of thinking that I didn't feel anything because I didn't react to things.
Trifling trouble find utterance; deeply felt pangs are silent.
What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak... It was born in the moment when we accumulated silent things within us.
