Quotes About Self-awareness

It doesn't really matter what a person decides to do, or how radically a person plays with gender. What matters, I think, is how aware a person is of the options. How sad for a person to be missing out on some expression of identity, just for now knowing there are options.

My grandmother told me something I've never forgotten. 'Never fuck anyone you wouldn't want to be.' -audience member

Leanne, would you kindly remove your nose from my ass? It's starting to chafe. - Noelle

One of these days, she said, I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think - try to determine what character of a woman I am, for, candidly, I do not know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it.

She had all her life long been accustomed to harbor thoughts and emotions which never voiced themselves. They had never taken the form of struggles. They belonged to her and were her own, and she entertained the conviction that she had a right to them and that they concerned no one but herself.

Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her.

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her.

Copil fiind, îÈ™i tr?ise viaÈ›a m?runt? pe de-a întregul în sinea ei. De timpuriu înÈ›elesese instinctiv dualitatea existenÈ›ei: viaÈ›a exterioar?, la care te adaptezi, viaÈ›a interioar?, în care îÈ›i pui întreb?ri.

He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside the fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.

One of these days, she said, I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think—try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it.

One of these days, she said, I am going to pull myself together for a while and think - try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know.

But sometimes, if I start to picture what's downstairs in the kitchen cupboards and fridge and those bowls on the counter, and try to piece everything together in a series of interesting meals and fill in any gaps with a mental grocery list, it turns into a fun, riveting game so engaging I forget what a horrible person I am and fixate instead on the far more relevant question of what I plan to cook and eat in the near future.

He smiled at me. He did that thing again, where he pulled back his lips and showed me his teeth. He smiled so big it made him sneeze. It was like he was saying, I know i'm a mess. Isn't it funny?

He looked at me, and, my goodness, his eyes were bright, and it occurred to me that they were probably so bright because he had never had to ask himself who he was or where he belonged or who he wanted to be.

We must all learn the measure of our strength. Otherwise we exhaust ourselves striving for that which we can never gain.

We don't have to accept the things we might change.

He had such a kind voice, that of a man who sees his own faults and forgives himself for them--not arrogantly or leniently but with wisdom--knowing he, as are all humans, is hopelessly flawed.

I don't know," said Diana. "I gave up a long time ago trying to decide whether we're ever ourselves or are only playing roles. And who could tell which the role was, the passionate kisser or the ruthless conqueror? Maybe they both are roles. Or maybe they're both true. Can't two contradictory things exist inside one person?

She can only see other people in reference to how they make her feel

The more subtle inheritance of my strange childhood was the feeling, which we all shared to some extent, of believing we were never quite going about things correctly. Had I said the right thing? Had I worn the right clothes? Was I attractive? These questions were unsettling and self-absorbing, even overwhelming at times, and remained so throughout much of my adult life, until, at last, I grew impatient with dwelling on the past.

I have many regrets, and I'm sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don't regret them, maybe you're stupid.

Could she fall so low? No, there were limits, and she believed she still knew where some of them were.

I have an insidious conviction that between the onset of puberty and the age of thirty, people, like the hypothetical painting in the desert, do no exist without someone looking at them. I didn't. After thirty, I suppose we become a corporeal composite of what all of our viewers have witnessed, a kind of community gelatin.

Many people are angry when they make a mistake, but very few people have the sense to be sorry.