Quotes About Vulnerability

You cannot live when you are untouchable. Life is vulnerability.

Y no sé para qué quiero que lo sepa. No sirve para nada que lo sepa. Y sospecho que es peor, eso de que lo sepa. Pero ya ve, se lo digo igual. Parece que la quiero, Ofelia. Mil perdones, pero me parece que la quiero mucho.

Aborrezco profundamente los grandes ámbitos. Sentarme en esas confiterías inmensas que todavía persisten en Buenos Aires me produce una sensación de vértigo sumamente desagradable; un asco certero en la boca del estómago. En lugares como ésos uno se encuentra permanentemente expuesto, fatalmente a la vista de todos. Y eso es algo que sencillamente no tolero. Ocho años de análisis no han logrado quitarme esa inquietud y ese desasosiego.

Bueno, usted también pensará que es una locura. Pero de todas las personas a las que se lo puedo decir y que van a pensar que es una barbaridad prefiero decírselo a usted, porque en el fondo es la única que me importa que lo sepa. No sirve para nada que lo sepa. Y sospecho que es peor, eso de que lo sepa. Pero ya ve, se lo digo igual. Parece que la quiero, Ofelia. Mil perdones, pero me parece que la quiero mucho.

Creí entender que lo que a veces nos conmueve del dolor ajeno es el temor atávico que ese dolor nos transite a nosotros.

Todos somos cobardes», pensé, «sólo es cuestión de que nos atemoricen lo suficiente».

Creí entender que a ese hombre ninguna verdad podía lastimarlo, simplemente porque no le quedaba ningún retazo ileso en el alma como para que pudiera llagársele

No longer shall I paint interiors with men reading and women knitting. I will paint living people who breathe and feel and suffer and love.

I thought of the wilderness we had left behind us, open to sea and sky, joyous in its plenitude and simplicity, perfect yet vulnerable, unaware of what is coming, defended by nothing, guarded by no one.

If I had been as capable of trust as I am susceptible to fear I might have learned something new or some truth so very old we have all forgotten it.

All men at heart, she thought—at bottom should I say?—are really queer. The way ballplayers pat one another on the fannies, running onto the field or coming out of the huddle. The Greek quarterback and the nervous center. Queer as clams. Though of course none would have the decency or honesty or nerve to admit it.

Do you know what a playwright is? A playwright is someone who lets his guts hang out on the stage.

Martha: Oh, I like your anger. I think that's what I like about you most. Your anger.

Martha: ... I cry allllll the time; but deep inside, so no one can see me. I cry all the time. And Georgie cries all the time, too. We both cry all the time, and then what we do, we cry, and we take our tears, and we put 'em in the ice box, in the goddamn ice trays until they're all frozen and then... we put them... in our... drinks.

Though we longed not to be lonely, we also feared the pain it would take us to be brought out of our lonely states. And after that fear, could we be guaranteed that we would never be returned to a state of loneliness again? We could not.

During relaxation we drop our guard. Particularly in conversation. Relaxed conversation leads to openness. And in openness we often reveal what should never be revealed.

These were desperate times, the two men agreed; it was easy to stay at home and pull the bedcovers over your heads, but if nothing was done, someone would rip the bedcovers from your face and tug you naked into the street.

To write is a humiliation.

I gave her everything I could give," He winces as if there's a nerve which gets trapped in his heart whenever it pulls in a certain direction.

If we each told each other our deepest, darkest secrets, we would laugh uproariously at our lack of originality.

Boys. It's late. If you're not gonna kill me, what do you want?

Take it off, take it all off.

Our days begin with trouble here,Our life is but a span,And cruel death is always near,So frail a thing is man.

Some of them want to use youSome of them want to get used by youSome of them want to abuse youSome of them want to be abusedSweet dreams are made of thisWho am I to disagree?