Quotes About Judgment

Before you criticize someone, walk a mile in his shoes. That way, if he gets angry, he'll be a mile away--and barefoot.

If there is a God, I'd like to look him in the face knowing I'd died as I lived. In conscious sin.

Watching me, judging me, smelling the crippling failure oozing from my skin, my desperation clawing and all-consuming panic drenching me as I gape in horror at the world and wonder why everyone is smiling and looking at me with secret knowledge of my aching shame.

I keep three kinds of books: those I want to read, those I want to reread, and those I want to reopen just to confirm how bad they are.

Maybe the trouble is that the shape of life is elastic, that it can feel and be full at variable levels of fullness. Or maybe we're poor judges of our own lives' fullness. Or maybe the concepts of emptiness and fullness are poor metaphors for happiness, if in fact happiness is what we're talking about. ?

Some people love only those they can condescend to, those they can tenderly despise.

Martin smiled, the slow curve of his mouth revealing a dimple in his left cheek. Violet frowned, as she did every time she saw that dimple. It didn't belong on his face. It was as simple as that. Dimples were impish and mischievous. They spoke of laughter and pleasure, not three piece suits and pipes and slippers and cardigans with elbow patches.

It occurred to me that it said something very unpleasant about both of us that we saw concern and kindness as attacks.

I suppose she was pretty-at least everyone seemed to think so-but her mouth was small and ungenerous, and her eyes was hard. Her voice was high-pitched and always rather breathless, and she lisped slightly. The quality of her voice was childlike, innocent, and that was a deception worthy of the Serpent in Eden.

Faith Cowry turned out to be little, dark, skinny, bright-eyed as a wren, and not the least bit stupid. And despite what Estella'd said, she didn't strike me as absentminded either, just somebody who knew what mattered, and it didn't include showing up on time to meet Estella's low-life friends.

I wonder what they think of me in their world of light, deaf to the broken patterns around them. I wonder what stories they have invented, to explain me when I cannot explain myself.

She was lonely, but she'd never tell anyone that. If you admitted you were lonely, people assumed there was something wrong with you. The media talked about an epidemic of loneliness, and yet admitting that you felt that way was a statement of failure.

I don't suppose any of us really knows what we'd do until we're actually in that position ourselves. It's pretty easy to judge from the outside, but not so easy when it's your life.

Refusing to rate what we perceive helps us to cultivate feelings of acceptance rather than judgement, as we stop demanding that life be other than it is.

There, don't you think I'm always a-fault-finding! When I get hold of the real thing in folks, I stick to 'em,—but there's an awful sight of poor material walking about that ain't worth the ground it steps on.

How terrible it is to recognize that one's brilliance rests solely upon the small-mindedness of others.

concept that to me is totally foreign: looking scruffy is selfish. Not only do you look like a slob but you let down the whole city.

The thing is, the French are highly sensitive to aesthetics. Anything unattractive—even something as insignificant as an underdressed tourist—can make them uncomfortable.

The jury had persuaded themselves that he was decent, because they had wanted to think that in his shoes they would have been decent too. They had no idea how decency, loyalty, courage, how it all shrivelled away when one was frightened.

How easy it was, she thought unhappily as she did it, for men and women. They could stand in a street and argue, flirt - they could kiss, make love, do anything at all - and the world indulged them.

She let her head sink, until her brow met the varnished glass. How easy it was, she thought unhappily as she did it, for men and women. They could stand in a street and argue, flirt—they could kiss, make love, do anything at all—and the world indulged them. Whereas she and Julia—

We are not here to help them, ma'am. We are here to punish them. There are too many good women who are poor or ill or hungry, for us to bother with the bad ones.

Now I feel myself a book, as books must seem to her: she looks at me with unreading eyes, sees the shape, but not the meaning of the text. She marks the white flesh ?'Ain't you pale!' she says ? but not the quick, corrupted blood beneath.

Dainty's clever with a needle, though she seems so rough— don't she? That's just her way. She was what you would say, not brought up, but dragged up. But she is kind at her heart.