Quotes About Consciousness

Mert vannak pillanatok, amikor az ember sem gondolkozni, sem érezni nem tud. S ha nem érezünk, sem nem gondolkozunk, akkor?...t?nÅ'dött.

C'est pourquoi je hais les miroirs qui me montrent mon vrai visage. Seule, je tombe souvent dans le néant. Je dois poser le pied prudemment sur le rebord du monde, de peur de tomber dans le néant. Je suis forcée de me cogner la tête contre une porte bien dure, pour me contraindre à rentrer dans mon propre corps.»

Woolf was breaking new ground in the way she rendered consciousness and her understanding of human subjectivity.

The birds sing in chorus; deep tunnels run between the stalks of flowers; the house is whitened; the sleeper stretches; gradually all is astir. Light floods the room and drives shadow beyond shadow to where they hang in folds inscrutable. What does the central shadow hold? Something? Nothing? I do not know.

Poiché vi sono momenti nei quali non si può pensare né sentire. E se non si può né pensare né sentire, allora e che punto si è?

But how describe the world seen without a self?

My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring, roaring, diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that.

Los omóplatos de Rhoda casi se tocan, en el centro de la espalda, como las alas de una mariposa. Mientras contempla los números de tiza, su pensamiento se aloja en esos blancos círculos. Pasa a través de las alzadas blancas y penetra en el vacío sola. No tienen sentido para ella. Ni ella tiene respuesta para ellos. Rhoda no tiene cuerpo y los otros sí.

And as she lost consciousness of outer things, and her name and her personality and her appearance, and whether Mr. Carmichael was there or not, her mind kept throwing up from its depths, scenes, and names, and sayings, and memories and ideas, like a fountain spurting over that glaring, hideously difficult white space, while she modelled it with greens and blues.

Los omóplatos de Rhoda casi se tocan, en el centro de la espalda, como las alas de una pequeña mariposa. Mientras contempla los números de tiza, su pensamiento se aloja en esos blancos círculos. Pasa a través de las alzadas blancas y penetra en el vacío sola. No tienen sentido para ella. Ni ella tiene respuesta para ellos. Rhoda no tiene cuerpo y los otros sí.

Dünyay? avucunun içine al?yor. Bir say? yazmaya baÅŸl?yorum, dünya içinde ilmek oluyor; ama ben d???nday?m ÅŸimdi birleÅŸtirdiÄŸim, mühürlediÄŸim, bütünlediÄŸim ilmeÄŸin. Dünya bir bütün, ben d???nday?m.

Perché se siamo sufficientemente decisi possiamo sbattere fuori casa questa sgualdrina, la Memoria, e tutte le sue carabattole.

Én, kezemben a jegyzetfüzetemmel, kifejezéseket gyártva, csupán a változásokat jegyeztem; árnyék-magam csak az árnyakat figyelte szorgalmasan. Hogyan folytassam utamat, mondtam, én nélkül, súlytalanul, látomások nélkül egy súlytalan és illúziók nélkül való világban?

For the reading of these books seems to perform a curious couching operation on the senses; one sees more intensely afterwards; the world seems bared of its covering and given an intenser life.

We are what our thoughts have made us; so take care about what you think. Words are secondary. Thoughts live; they travel far.

And blood-black nothingness began to spin. A system of cells interlinked, within cells interlinked, within cells interlinked within one stem. And dreadfully distinct against the dark, a tall white fountain played.

How small the cosmos (a kangaroo's pouch would hold it), how paltry and puny in comparison to human consciousness, to a single individual recollection, and its expression in words!

What surprises you in life? The marvel of consciousness -- that sudden window swinging open on a sunlit landscape amidst the night of non-being.

in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one's position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo's natural members.

that is his head, containing a brain of a different brand than that of the synthetic jellies preserved in the skulls around him

We think not in words but in shadows of words.

I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.

Unless a film of flesh envelops us, we die. Man exists only insofar as he is separated from his surroundings. The cranium is a space-traveler's helmet. Stay inside or you perish. Death is divestment, death is communion.