“I would think how words go straight up in a thin line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words.”

Call me old-fashioned, or Faulknerian, but I find the taxonomy of emotion a silly endeavor in the first place, don't you? Moreover, to me, each instantiation of an established emotion feels partly new: every time I feel sad, the sadness feels different, though perhaps not different enough to cross the threshold into "new". Reminds me, while I'm on this literary jag, of Borges's Funes the Memorious:

"He was, let us not forget, almost incapable of general, platonic ideas. It was not only difficult for him to understand that the generic term dog embraced so many unlike specimens of differing sizes and different forms; he was disturbed by the fact that a dog at three-fourteen (seen in profile) should have the same name as the dog at three-fifteen (seen from the front)."