Quotes About Concealment

There is a song from this old movie called Arth where a man asks a woman, "You are smiling so much, there must be a deep pain that you're hiding." I wonder what your deep pains are and I wonder how I have failed you.

I leave a lot out when I tell the truth. The same when I write a story.

For all these years I kept my mouth closed so selfish desires would not fall out. And because I remained quiet for so long now my daughter does not hear me... All these years I kept my true nature hidden, running along like a small shadow so nobody could catch me. And because I moved so secretly now my daughter does not see me... We are lost, she and I, unseen and not seeing; unheard and not hearing, unknown by others.

Can you imagine how it is, to want to be neither inside nor outside, to want to be nowhere and disappear?

I hid my deepest feelings so well I forgot where I had placed them.

Secrets are kept from children, a lid on top of the soup kettle, so they do not boil over with too much truth.

That is the way with a wound. The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

as to our hopes, our dreams, our secret desires, we couldn't talk about those. They were to vague, too frightening, too important. And so they stayed inside us, growing like a cancer, a body eating away at itself. In retrospect I'm amazed how long our marriage lasted.

Así es como se cura una herida: empieza a cerrarse sobre sí misma, a proteger aquello que tanto duele, y, una vez cerrada, ya no se ve lo que hay debajo, aquello que provocaba el dolor.

How to obey parents and listen to your mother's mind. How not to show your own thoughts, to put your feelings behind your face so you can take advantage of hidden opportunities. Why easy things are not worth pursuing. How to know your own worth and polish it, never flashing it around like a cheap ring. Why Chinese thinking is best.

The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pain.

I now lived in an invisible place made of my own dwindling breath, and because no one else could see it, they could not yank me out of it.

When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.

At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.

I was always ashamed to take. So I gave. It was not a virtue. It was a disguise.

But I lie. I embellish. My words are not deep enough. They disguise, they conceal. I will not rest until I have told of my descent into a sensuality which was as dark, as magnificent, as wild, as my moments of mystic creation have been dazzling, ecstatic, exalted.

Secrets. Need to disguise. The novel was born of this.

and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.

I have forgotten my mask and my face was in it. Man

The words we did not shout, the tears unshed, the curse we swallowed, the phrase we shortened, the love we killed, turned into magnetic iron ore, into tourmaline, into pyrite agate, blood congealed into cinnabar, blood calcinated, leadened into galena, oxidized, aluminized, sulphated, calcinated, the mineral glow of dead meteors and exhausted suns in the forest of dead trees and dead desires.

They who walk in the light do not see those in the shadow.

he words we did not shout, the tears unshed, the curse we swallowed, the phrase we shortened, the love we killed, turned into magnetic iron ore, into tourmaline, into pyrite agate, blood congealed into cinnabar, blood calcinated, leadened into galena, oxidized, aluminized, sulphated, calcinated, the mineral glow of dead meteors and exhausted suns in the forest of dead trees and dead desires.

That is why I always lie. I can't have a truthful relationship. Gore's idealization of me sets my pattern. I begin truthfully, but then I withhold what hurts him, what would destroy his illusion. I hide my psychoanalysis, my real age, my sexual needs, my past lovers and experience, my negro lover, and I give him his dream, his ideal woman. But where am I in the end?

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.