Quotes About Individuality

What does it matter to you that I'll stay here alone? What does it matter to you if I don't want others to want on my behalf, but want to want for myself-if I want the impossible .....

Ä°nsan? suçtan ar?nd?rman?n tek yolu onu özgürlükten ar?nd?rmakt?r.

Kendimi hissediyorum. Ama sadece içine bir ÅŸey kaçan göz, yaral? parmak ya da aÄŸr?yan diÅŸ kendini hisseder ve bireyselliÄŸini kavrar. SaÄŸl?kl? göz, parmak ve diÅŸ adeta yoktur. KiÅŸisel bilincin bir hastal?ktan ibaret olduÄŸu apaç?k ortada deÄŸil mi?

What makes you think that nonsense is bad? If they'd nurtured and cared for human nonsense over the ages the way they did intelligence, it might have turned into something of special value.

Picture this: a human finger, cut off from its body, its hand...a separate human finger, running hopping along, all hunched over, on a glass sidewalk. I am that finger.

Picture this: a human finger, cut from its body, its hand...a separate human finger, running hopping along, all hunched over, on a glass sidewalk. I am that finger.

I walked alone through the twilit street. The wind was whirling, driving, carrying me like a slip of paper. Fragments of cast-iron sky flew and flew-they had another day, two days to hurtle through infinity… The unifs of passersby brushed against me, but I walked alone. I saw it clearly: everyone was saved, but there was no salvation for me. I did not want salvation …"(c)

It is clear," interrupted I-330, "that to be original means to stand out among others; consequently, to be original means to violate the law of equality.

The natural road from nothingness to greatness is to forget that one is a gram and to feel that one is one-million of a ton!

the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?

Who knows who you are . . . A person is a novel: you don't know how it will end until the very last page. Otherwise, it wouldn't be worth reading to the very end

What if he, this yellow-eyed creature, in his disorderly, filthy mound of leaves, in his uncomputed life, is happier than we are?

A human being is made as absurdly as these preposterous "apartments"; human heads are opaque, with only tiny windows in them—the eyes.

Is it not clear then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?

But how explain all of myself, all of my sickness, recorded in these pages? And I subsided and walked obediently. ... A leaf torn off a tree by a sudden blast of wind obediently falls downward, but on the way it whirls, catches at every familiar branch, fork, knot And I, too, was catching at every silent spherical head, at the transparent ice of the walls, at the blue spire of the Accumulator Tower piercing a cloud.

If only I had a mother, the way the ancients had. I mean my own mother. And if for her I could be —not the Builder of the Integral, and not number D-503, and not a molecule of the One State, but just a piece of humanity, a piece of her own self, trampled, crushed, outcast . . .

To be original means to distinguish yourself from others. It follows that to be original is to violate the principle of equality.

True literature can exist only where it is created, not by diligent and trustworthy functionaries, but by madmen, hermits, heretics, dreamers, rebels, and skeptics.

And everyone must lose his mind, everyone must! The sooner the better! It is essential — I know it.

I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?

The world is kept alive only by heretics: the heretic Christ, the heretic Copernicus, the heretic Tolstoy. Our symbol of faith is heresy. ("Tomorrow")

We are passing through an unheroic phase of history when the man who has escaped passive conformism and follows the voice of his own conscience is a hero.

Everyone is kneaded out of the same dough but not baked in the same oven.

She not weird, gross, or crazy; just uniquely special in the eyes of God, the Almighty Lord and Creator of the Universe."