Quotes About Ambiguity

This year I'm a star, but what will I be next year? A black hole?

I don't know what I want, but I know what I don't want

You're still in love' 'No I'm not, I'm not She'll always be a part of me, and she's an important person in my life but for the two of us something wasn't working.' 'What element?' 'We never found out

Abysmal vermin that I am, I couldn't of course tell her that it was her incredible mother that I wanted to see again… I knew only as I drove through the cold, night autumn air that somewhere Freud, Sophocles and Eugene O'Neill were laughing.

El hombre inconsistente ¿Quién sabe? ¿Vivirá todavía a finales de de la semana que viene? Bueno, si vive, allí estaré, y si no. ¿Qué más da? Resulta cruel dicho así, pero ¿no es cruel también la vida?

We say the rarajipari is the game of life, Angel said. You never know how hard it will be. You never know when it will end. You can't control it. You can only adjust.

Night, I have discovered, has a faintly bitter taste, caused by its large ingredient of Un-attained Possibility.

Nothing is as it seems. Black can appear white when the light is blinding but white loses all luster at the faintest sign of darkness.

What we don't understand we can make mean anything.

Did you just say shrug instead of actually shrugging?

Sometimes,the word FINE could simply mean FORGET IT..NOT EXPOSING .

The goods are odd but the odds are good.

On the mantelpiece, the photograph of a chimpanzee and a statuette of the Buddha. This proximity, more accidental than intentional, makes me wonder over and over where my place might be between these two extrems, man's pre and transfiguration.

I have followed only one idea all the way--the idea that everything man achieves necessarily turns against him.

Man, I hated not being able to figure someone out. And from the slightly uncertain look he gave me as we all went to class, I suspected he felt the same way.

And Derek was... what? A pair of dark eyes that hid more than they revealed and some broad shoulders and a mouth that could be cold and thin and then suddenly widen into a generous grin just when you thought such a thing was impossible.

She was incompetent. Incompetent for life. She had never figured out how to figure things out. She was only vaguely beginning to know the kind of absence she had of herself inside her.

What I really do when I write you is follow myself, and I'm doing it right now: I'm following myself without knowing what it will lead me to. Sometimes following myself is so hard. Because of following something that's still so nebulous. Sometimes I end up stopping.

Who hasn't ever wondered: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

I feel as though I've already achieved what I wanted and I still don't know what I achieved. Could that be the somewhat dubious and elusive thing vaguely called 'experience'?

Sou um monstro ou isso é ser uma pessoa?

Who hasn't ever wondered: am I monster or is this what it means to be a person?

In no sense an intellectual, I write with my body. And what I write is like a dank haze. The words are sounds transfused with shadows that intersect unevenly, stalactites, woven lace, transposed organ music. I can scarcely invoke the words to describe this pattern, vibrant and rich, morbid and obscure, its counterpoint the deep bass of sorrow.

Desculpai-me mas vou continuar a falar de mim que sou meu desconhecido, e ao escrever me surpreendo um pouco pois descobri que tenho um destino. Quem já não se perguntou: sou um monstro ou isto é ser uma pessoa?