Quotes About Authenticity

I'm just not sure who I should be trusting here,' she says. 'Me,' I say. 'Just me.' She bites her lip, like she believes me, or at least like she is starting to believe me - which is more than I could hope for in this moment. Because you can't tell people to trust you. You have to show them that they can. And I haven't had enough time.

I had no problem being on my own. My grandfather had raised me to depend on myself. My problems came when I tried to fit myself into someone else's life, especially when that meant giving up a part of myself in the process. So I waited until I didn't have to. Until it felt like someone fit effortlessly. Or maybe that's too easy - maybe it's more accurate to say that what was required to be with Owen didn't feel like effort. It felt like details.

But consider this," Jesse said, picking the bourbon back up, "maybe you aren't in this position because you forgot yourself, but because you started getting honest about who you really might be.

Always performing who they are instead of being it

Going to college don't make you from somewhere, any more than a cat born in an over can call itself a biscuit.

here's the thing about friends, I mean REAL friends: You can't just put up a poster at school and advertise for somebody and then hope you find the perfect one. It might work, I guess, but you'd look so pathetic and desperate that no one would want to be your friend, and so it would be kind of pointless

She got icing all over her face. I think that's why I like her. For the good stuff, she's willing to get icing all over her face. Who wouldn't want a girl like that?

We're meant to read the lives of important people as if they never bothered with breakfast, lunch, or dinner, or took a coffee break, or stopped for a hot dog on the street, or wandered downstairs for a few spoonfuls of chocolate pudding in the middle of the night.

she was lying about herself to find out the truth about herself.

Half the troubles in life come from pretending to oneself that one is a better and finer human being than one is';

Sex is like crying, it does look pretty if you really do it

What is love? Sometimes it's just letting yourself be who and what you are, and letting the person you're supposed to love be who and what he is too. Or maybe what and who they are.

I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.

True love means you love the real person, not an ideal that you have in your head and superimpose over them. That's illusion and lies to me.

Sex was never as neat as the movies made it. Real sex was messy. Good sex was messier.

I smiled at him, as Doyle squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. Some people are addicted to falling in love, Doctor. Some people love that rush of new emotions, and when that first rush of new love is spent, they move on to the next, thinking the love wasn't real. What I felt in her, and potentially in you, is the love of years. Love that knows that that first rush of freshness isn't the real thing. It's the tip of the iceberg.

But if anything will turn me off, it's a very practiced approach, as if the man has done it a thousand times before, to a lot of different women. Which always seems to imply that I am no different from all the rest. Not flattering.

I'll do my bit tonight, but forgive me if it's a little harder to keep going than normal. Forgive me if I'm not superwoman after all. Not superwoman? he exclaimed, putting a hand on his chest in mock surprise. You've lied to me all these years!

He looked less handsome without the smile and glow in his eyes, but he also seemed more real. Being real will get me into trouble faster than any amount of charm.

The only part of love that is blind is that first rush of endorphins and craziness; after that wears off, no one knows you as honestly, warts and all, as the people who love you, truly love you.

just because it's childish and unfair doesn't mean it isn't the way I felt. Stupid, but true.

To deny the darkness of yourself is to deny half of who you are, and when you love, truly love, you need to love the whole person; not just the part that smiles and waves, but the part that thinks murderous thoughts and knows that pain is both pleasure and temptation...but still thinks puppies are really cute.

If you're doing it right, love makes you more of who you are, not less

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