Quotes About Privacy

It was not a house where secrets could be kept easily.

Make it a house rule that your toddler has to knock on your door. Model this yourself when you go into her room.

And when I do crave privacy, I have only to flip the "Closed" sign on my shop door until I'm feeling sociable again. Everyone should have such signs on their doors, don't you think?

The more people advertise their love, the more fake it is. Why show it off to the world, when its meant to be confidential and between only the two of you. It just makes people wonder how true your love really is'

The good thing about masturbation is that you don't have to get dressed up for it.

WELL THEN FINE, she would just keep her visions to herself. Until she had another great one, anyway.

Mountain was being watched by too many

sisters, meanwhile, taught him that you should really not tell your sisters who you have a crush on, unless you want the entire palace to know about it.

he should leave us alone," Zoe said, "and then we won't really need nose plugs." "Famous last words," Logan said.

His sisters, meanwhile, taught him that you should really not tell your sisters who you have a crush on, unless you want the entire palace to know about it.

He did want to talk to Kinkajou about what had happened to Turtle — but he couldn't do that in front of Moon. He also couldn't take Moon to Anemone's room, because Anemone was there. Darkstalker wouldn't be able to hear any thoughts Moon had about the SeaWing princess, but to explain why she was there, they'd have to tell Moon about Turtle's imprisonment, and THAT would show up in her thoughts.

And now it was no longer a matter of people wilfully moving his electric torch, attempting to steal his drawing-pins, hiding his valuable rubber, malignantly dusting his mounds: now it was with a far deeper conviction, indeed with real distress, that he could say, "I should not wish my fame on to anyone, not even my worst enemy … it makes me physically ill … I protect myself as well as I can … I am barricaded behind double-locked doors day and night.

You have not bought the right to a truthful answer: your truth has not bought it. Sincerity is not to be bought: it is given, if it comes at all—given or inflicted. And really, you cannot invade a man's privacy like that.

The neighbors... hadn't, thankfully, done the usual by saying that Losley was a pleasant neighbor who'd kept herself to herself. (Always delivered in a tone of voice that suggested that, since keeping oneself to oneself was the single greatest thing one English person could do for another, the suspect ought to be excused whatever psychopathic shit they'd visited on other people.)

By calling something a secret, we state our right not to reveal, to maintain privacy.

The government spying on people doesn't literally make programmers write worse code. It just leads eventually to a world in which bad ideas will win. And because this is so important to hackers, they're especially sensitive to it. They can sense totalitarianism approaching from a distance, as animals can sense an approaching thunderstorm.

Private thoughts, feelings, and moments are the currency of relationships. Give them their proper value by sharing them exclusively with the people who share your trust and love. (Goodbye Phone)

Modern life is one sweeping, cradle-to-grave invasion of privacy. An encroachment on our ever-narrowing space. Our footprints in the sand are a billion bytes on a thousand hard drives. Fodder for the snoop and the historian alike.

I don't tweet or blog or order pizza with arugula on top. You won't find my mug on Facebook or Instagram. I don't have a life coach, an aroma therapist, or a manicurist, and I sure as hell don't do Pilates.

Nobody disappears completely anymore. The only thing that's disappeared is privacy, which is never coming back. And which is probably a good thing. Why should anything be private? No hiding, no guilt, no shame. Just a completely transparent world.

Okay. But don't talk to anyone. No writing. No pictures. These people don't want their faces shown.

The recluse, the shunner of fame, the "I just want to be alone" escapee—B. Traven was one, so was J. D. Salinger—seems perversely to invite intrusion.

My secret was sad, but at least it was my secret; it was something to hold on to.

There are eyes everywhere. No blind spot left. What shall we dream of when everything becomes visible? We'll dream of being blind.