Quotes About Consciousness

Brains are plastic. The truth is we are always training our brains – with or without our conscious participation. It's clear from countless reports that it's not uncommon for porn users to move from genre to genre, often arriving at places they find personally disturbing and confusing.

Nothing ever becomes real 'til it is experienced. John Keats

The poetic image is a sudden salience on the surface of the psyche

We cannot say what reality is, only what it seems like to us.

Inhabited space transcends geometrical space.

Poetry, rather than being a phenomenology of the mind, is a phenomenology of the soul.

Consciousness rejuvenates everything, giving a quality of beginning to the most everyday actions.

For Baudelaire, man's poetic fate is to be the mirror of immensity; or even more exactly, immensity becomes conscious of itself, through man. Man for Baudelaire is a vast being.

The poetic image is a sudden salience on the surface of the psyche, the lesser psychological causes of which have not been sufficiently investigated. Nor

There's no such thing as a minor lapse of awareness. You're either present with what is--right here, right now--or you're someplace else.

Your capacity expands in small increments each time you consciously let yourself enjoy the money you have, the love you feel, and the creativity you are expressing in the world. As that capacity for enjoyment expands, so does your financial abundance, the love you feel, and the creativity you express. Take

With a strong commitment to inquiring into yourself, the universe does not have to use catastrophes to wake you up.

Prot: I'm not tired. Brewer: I am. Prot: Perhaps you're getting too much sleep. All your beings seem to sleep a lot. Is that because it's so awful to be awake?

A crowd is not the sum of the individuals who compose it. Rather it is a species of animal, without language or real consciousness, born when they gather, dying when they depart.

Whatever we may say, all of us suffer from disturbed sleep at times. Some in truth hardly sleep, though some who sleep copiously swear that they do not. Some are disquieted by incessant dreams, and a fortunate few are visited often by dreams of delightful character. Some will say that they were at one time troubled in sleeping but have 'recovered' from it, as though awareness were a disease, as perhaps it is.

Certain mystes aver that the real world has been constructed by the human mind, since our ways are governed by the artificial categories into which we place essentially undifferentiated things, things weaker than our words for them.

We say, "I will," and "I will not," and imagine ourselves (though we obey the orders of some prosaic person every day) our own masters, when the truth is that our masters are sleeping. One wakes within us and we are ridden like beasts, though the rider is but some hitherto unguessed part of ourselves.

What's the difference between a human being and an animal?" "Intelligence, I suppose." Audrey looked at me for guidance. "We're smarter. Wouldn't you agree?" I nodded. "As long as we're writing the tests.

Consciousness came and went. Consciousness went and came like the errant winds of spring, and I, who so often have had difficulty in falling asleep among the besieging shades of memory, now fought to stay awake as a child struggles to lift a faltering kite by the string.

If you don't know I can't tell you. Yes, I can; because I want to turn things around. Like, everybody all the time only does it for himself or something he sees being part of him only bigger, an empire or a church, like that. I'm doing it for ants, to set us loose." The bearded man said, "You stoned?" "Sure I'm stoned. Ken, I'm stoned blind." "You don't look stoned, man." "Trust me.

I said nothing. It may have been that I was thinking; but if so, my mind was too much filled with sleep to be conscious of its thought. Instead, I became profoundly aware of my physical surroundings. The sky above my face in all its grandeur seemed to have been made solely for my benefit, and to be presented for my inspection now. I lay upon the ground as upon a woman, and the very air that surrounded me seemed a thing as admirable as crystal and as fluid as wine.

We say, I will, and I will not, and imagine ourselves (though we obey the orders of some prosaic person every day) our own masters, when the truth is that our masters are sleeping. One wakes within us and we are ridden like beasts, though the rider is but some hitherto unguessed part of ourselves.

But there is no such reason to mourn the destruction of a colony of cells: such a colony dies each time a loaf of bread goes into the oven. If a man is no more than such a colony, a man is nothing; but we instinctively know that man is more. What happens then to the part that is more?

And you, I think, are a good man of the kind who does not know himself to be one—some say that is the only kind.