Quotes About Consciousness

Vad är det som kommer oss att hela tiden försöka intala oss att de döda föremålen omkring oss har en själ, att ladda dem med betydelser? Kan det vara någonting annat än misstanken att också vi är döda föremål?

The moment where everything becomes unstuck: the world around you suddenly moving both slower and quicker, until you are completely and totally present in it. Your everything.

The only laws of matter are those that our minds must fabricate and the only laws of mind are fabricated for it by matter.

If you're not careful, you run out of time.

People look, they don't see.

One of the oddest things in life, I think, is the things one remembers. One chooses to remember, I suppose. Something in one must choose.

Someone was looking at me, a disturbing sensation if you're dead.

Roland] jerked back too fast to see, and his fist was suddenly connecting with my chin. I didn't pass out, but my body went limp. Part of me was screaming silently. The other part was saying, 'Oh, what pretty trees.

If you think too much about a thing, it is no longer innocent even if, in truth, it began that way

I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me; had they duly consider'd how much depended upon what they were then doing;

Y, en vuestro propio caso, recordad bien y meditad sobre esta sencilla distinción (no hacerla como es debido ha sido la perdición de miles):—que vuestra conciencia no es ley.—

I can't tell anymore when I'm asleep and when I'm awake, or which is worse.

Which was better: being alive (if that was the right word) but not remembering anything, or being dead?

The borders of consciousness are anxious enough, raw and desperate places; we shouldn't be dragged across them like struggling thieves as if sleep was a felony.

And as I lay there listening, with the sun filtering across me, I thought this was how it should always be. To be charmed from sleep by a voice like this, eased softly back into life, rather than by the customary brutalities of shouts, knocking, and alarm-bells like blows on the head. The borders of consciousness are anxious enough, raw and desperate places; we shouldn't be dragged across them like struggling thieves as if sleep was a felony.

I cannot bear that lowering myself from the waist down will force one fat roll to collide with another like Earth's tectonic plates, and the subduction energy that results will bring me faster to unconsciousness than sniffing glue.

Normally, one is only conscious of the room around one, but when no-one else is present, one's awareness is free to fill all the space.

I have done so many things in my life, she said to the mirror. Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?

If she ever knew me at all she must later have discovered that for those of us who feel deeply and who are at all conscious of the inextricable tangle of human thought there is only one response to be made—ironic tenderness and silence.

The great prayer wound its way into my sleepy consciousness like a serpent, coil after shining coil of words—the voice of the muezzin sinking from register to register of gravity—until the whole morning seemed dense with its marvelous healing powers, the intimations of a grace undeserved and unexpected, impregnating that shabby room where Melissa lay, breathing lightly as a gull, rocked upon the oceanic splendours of a language she would never know.

I suppose events are simply a sort of annotation of our feelings--the one might be deduced from the other. Time carries us (boldly imagining that we are discrete ego's modeling our own personal futures)--time carries us forward by the momentum of those feelings inside us of which we ourselves are least conscious.

If you think of yourself as a sleeping city for example… what? You can sit quiet and hear the processes going on, going about their business; volition, desire, will, cognition, passion, conation.

for those of us who feel deeply and who are at all conscious of the inextricable tangle of human thought there is only one response to be made — ironic tenderness and silence.

And a flower, doesn't even know it's own beauty it's entire life. Sad, huh?