Quotes About Contemplation

I'm sure I've devoted enough thought to Rush Limbaugh for one lifetime.

I'm self-entertaining. My dialogue is with myself.

I don't have all the answers. I'm just supposed to present what I think is an issue and have dialogue start.

I never had any desire to defend myself, and never did I seriously think about it.

To make a movie about someone who is thinking and writing is scary. There's no big love story, no action, no drama. It's not an easy task.

I like the pause that tea allows.

I am an insomniac. Most of my nights include a moment of wakening. Often I will make my way to the kitchen to make tea and read for awhile.

Personally, I don't choose any particular religion or symbol or group of words or teachings to define me. That's between me and the most high. You know, my higher self. The Creator.

How many ways have you thought of already?" "Who can count the number of stars in the sky or grains of sand upon the beach? It's futile.

I think the idea of holing up and hunkering down against the larger forces of the world has not lost its allure since Thoreau's time. If anything that instinct, or impulse, continues to reside in almost all of us, sometimes activated or bestirred and other times dormant but always present.

He liked the cemetery. He told me once that it was where a man his age had to go to talk to anybody who could appreciate him.

You can't simply put a book down or away.

This is a quote

Do what you are doing. Monastic motto

I think poetry is best read to oneself.

Seeing America slowly was, in a way, like eating slow food-I wasn't covering much ground in a single day, but I was digesting a lot more.

it encourages its readers to engage in similar acts of self-scrutiny.

I have learned that silence is a way of hearing the voices within and of exploring unexpressed and nascent thoughts and feelings.

A wise man waits until everyone else has spoken.

Only wisdom can teach us when it's best to say nothing.

We have so much time and so little to do. Strike that, reverse it.

I could die. That was obviously an option all along—and I knew it—but in that moment, in that gloomy room, for some unknown reason … it finally sunk in. Like, really sunk in. And it sunk in hard. I felt the floor tip under me. I don't mean that in a fancy-pants, writing way. I mean it felt like the floor actually tipped under my feet—severely—and then dropped away.

I was a wallflower who planned to stay that way, who never imagined anybody else to be.

But how do you start getting out of your room? I was reading a poem by my idol, Wallace Stevens, in which he said, "The self is a cloister of remembered sounds." My first response was, Yesss! How did he know that? It's like he's reading my mind.