Quotes About Authenticity

It was themselves he gave back to them, blurred by the compromises of how many years.

Elle disait ce qui lui passait par la tête, mais avec une chaleur bouleversante, comme si, à travers ces mots chuchotés, frémissants, son cÅ"ur essayait de se faire entendre.

I'm thirty,' I said. 'I'm five years too old to lie to myself and call it honor.

This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words.

sou um dos poucos homens honestos que jamais conheci.

affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don't in the beginning.

You're three or four different men but each of them out in the open. Like all Americans.

One thing I liked about Mason: he said things. I mean, I thought about a lot of things, but I never actually said them. Out loud. I turned away from him, gave a kick under the covers to show my irritation.

You may not be the person your mother wants you to be, but you are you. Our job here is to try and separate the wheat from the chaff and figure out who you are and not who your mother thinks you are.

and now i know i'm not myself. how can i ever be myself again? i was never myself in the first place!

Remember, Sookie, nothing says more about a family than good silver and real pearls. The rest is just fluff.

Alla gente non piacciono questi fatti, ma non so che cosa farci. Se qualcuno ti chiede come stai, si aspetta che tu risponda BENE. Non devi dire che la sera prima ti sei addormentata piangendo perché erano due giorni di fila che non parlavi con un'altra persona. Devi dire: BENE.

Worry less about what other people think about you, and more about what you think about them.

actually been putting myself out there," Anna reminded

in love with. Look at you. You look like you've been shellacked and

We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.

But I am not perfect in my way of putting things Because I lack the divine simplicity Of being only what I appear to be.

It's been months since I last wrote. I've lived in a state of mental slumber, leading the life of someone else. I've felt, very often, a vicarious happiness. I haven't existed. I've been someone else. I've lived without thinking.

O poeta é um fingidor. Finge tão completamente Que chega a fingir que é dor A dor que deveras sente.

To say! To know how to say! To know how to exist via the written voice and the intellectual image! This is all that matters in life; the rest is men and women, imagined loves and factitious vanities, the wiles of our digestion and forgetfulness, people squirming — like worms when a rock is lifted — under the huge abstract boulder of the meaningless blue sky.

I walk along a street and see in the faces of the passersby not the expression they really have but the expression they would have for me if they knew about my life and how I am, if I carried, transparent in my gestures and my face, the ridiculous, timid abnormality of my soul.

I look at myself but I'm missing. I know myself: it's not me.

I crave time in all its duration, and I want to be myself unconditionally.

To love is to tire of being alone; it is therefore a cowardice, a betrayal of ourselves.