conflicted emotions Quotes

I hate, and yet must love the thing I hate.

Darkness can be funny. It can be quirky. There are different ways that that stuff comes out as a creative person. But the actual conflicted, twisted, decaying, rotting soul? That's not me. No more.

Can you hate someone for what they have done, but still love them for whom they had been?

Oh, I have loved him too much to feel no hate for him.

I love you more than I think I should.

Though I continue to tell stories about Iraq, I sometimes fear this makes me a fraud. I feel guilty about the sorrow I feel because I know it is manufactured, and I feel guilty about the sorrow I do not feel because it is owed, it is the barest beginnings of what is owed to the fallen.

I could stand up and go to her and kiss her. I could. But there is still too much to be ruined.

Nobody wants to be here and nobody wants to leave.

I would have gone home to my mother, but I'm not that crazy about my mother.

Some live in a state of passionate indecision.

Men love their vices and hate them at the same time.

I guess there's nothing I don't like about Merlin, in this presentation. I love everything, even the things I find despicable and abhorrent in Merlin. They're actually a joy to ride on the tailcoats of.

Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.

Knowing that something is wrong and doing it anyway happens very often in life, and I doubt I will ever know why.

If he looked into her face, he would see those haunted, loving eyes. The hauntedness would irritate him - the love would move him to fury. How dare she love him? Hadn't she any sense at all? What was he supposed to do about that? Return it? How? What could his calloused hands produce to make her smile? What of his knowledge of the world and of life could be useful to her? What could his heavy arms and befuddled brain accomplish that would earn him his own respect, that would in turn allow him to accept her love?

We all need that experience of forgetting who you are. Forgetting who you are is such a delicious experience and so frightening that we're in this conflicted predicament.

You tell me you were happier with him, but you want me to stay.

I do not kill with my gun; He who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.

It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this weirdly painful joy, but I couldn't say it back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window.

But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our love.

Certain days I think definitely because we went in there and we got Saddam and that was our mission. On other days, we lost so many lives and so many brothers and sisters... on that aspect, no.

I wish they were all dead and we were, too. It would be best." Well, there's no good response to that. I can hardly dispute it since I was walking around with a syringe to kill Peeta when I found them. Do I really want him dead? What I want...what I want is to have him back.

I love him," I said, but even to my own ears I didn't sound happy about it.

My heart is a protest that I let rally against my ribs.

She could not admit but that he had remarkable qualities, sometimes she thought that there was even in him a strange and unattractive greatness; it was curious then that she could not love him, but loved still a man whose worthlessness was now so clear to her.