Quotes About Uniqueness

In life, finding a voice is speaking and living the truth. Each of you is an original. Each of you has a distinctive voice. When you find it, your story will be told. You will be heard.

Be yourself. Above all, let who you are, what you are, what you believe, shine through every sentence you write, every piece you finish.

It's just amazing the lengths people go to, to be thought of as special.

I mingle with my peers or no one, and since I have no peers, I mingle with no one.

koinophobia the fear that you've lived an ordinary life.

vemödalen n. the fear that originality is no longer possible.

How many of your snapshots could easily be replaced by a thousand identical others? Is there any value left in taking yet another photo of the moon, or the Taj Mahal, or the Eiffel Tower? Is a photograph just a kind of souvenir to prove you've been someplace, like a prefabricated piece of furniture that you happened to have assembled yourself?

treachery of the common n. the fear that everyone around the world is pretty much the same-that despite our local quirks, we were all mass-produced in the same factory, built outward from the same generic homunculus, preinstalled with the same tribal compulsions and character defects- which would leave you out of options if you ever want to reinvent yourself, or seek out a better society on the other side of the globe.

You don't need anybody to tell you who you are or what you are. You are what you are!

I'm not going to change the way I look or the way I feel to conform to anything. I've always been a freak. So I've been a freak all my life and I have to live with that, you know. I'm one of those people.

I'm not going to change the way I look or the way I feel to conform to anything. I've always been a freak. So I've been a freak all my life and I have to live with that, you know. I'm one of those people.

It is so hard to be a normal person when one is not a normal person.

Idiosyncratic types are sustained by the rich inner worlds of their Selves; they may or may not be successful by other people's standards or fit comfortably into the social order, but no matter what others say or convention dictates, they continue to march to their own drummer.

You were born an original, don't die a copy

I'm not President Bush

No one will ever write in just the way that you do, or in just the way that anyone else does. Because of this fact, there is no real competition between writers. What appears to be competition is actually nothing more than jealousy and gossip. Writing is a matter strictly of developing oneself. You compete only with yourself. You develop yourself by writing.

I think being different, going against the grain of society is the greatest thing in the world.

Also, she doesn't want to hear anyone else's inspiring story about a sister-in-law who went through exactly the same thing and is now running ultramarathons. Celeste doesn't mean to be ungenerous in her thoughts, but she has come to the chilling conclusion that we are all alone in our bodies. Irrefutably, immutably alone. And hence, no one's story offers hope.

A special voice, an arresting voice, impossible to ignore. She didn't always hit precise notes—she wasn't some formalist, some scientist, some striver—but she sang from her gut and she meant it. Her voice a living organism: no song ever, ever the same twice.

She knew, as all other people know, what lay within herself, how different she was from every one else who had ever lived, how interesting she was, both in her qualities and her experiences, a thing true of every one; and yet how impossible it is to make others see it!

As to wearing the badge of a party, either in politics or religion, I may say that never in my life was I so far from coveting such a thing. And then poetry breathes in another outer air. And then there is not an existent set of any-kind-of-politics I could agree with if I tried —

Nobody called her Moggy except for Mother, either. Nobody ever called me Kittycat except my family, and people who were looking for a fight.

Unless something remarkable had changed, he wore spiky, kinky sandy-auburn braids a shade darker than his freckled skin and a shade paler than his light-catching eyes.

She looked like a planetary: not tall, but her body bulky with high grav muscles, shoulders wide and sleeves of her coverall rolled up to show off sculpted forearms. She had a broad face with high, slanted cheekbones; coffee-dark eyes with a moderate fold, straight black hair chopped at the ear except for some longer locks, those dyed in fluttering streaks of red and gold.