Quotes About Self

Madness is only an amplification of what you already are.

I'll make you mine, lovers said in old books. They never said, I'll make you me.

I am not my childhood,' Snowman says out loud.

I don't want to look at something that determines me so completely.

When you alter yourself, the alterations become the truth...

We were revisionists; what we revised was ourselves.

She knows she's deceiving herself about that, but she prefers to deceive herself. She desperately needs to believe such pure joy is still possible.

And yes, I know it's you; and that is what we will come to, sooner or later, when it's even darker than It is now, when the snow is colder, when it's darkest and coldest and candles are no longer any use to us and the visibility is zero: Yes. It's still you. It's still you.

I have failed once again to fulfill the expectations of others, which have become my own.

In case you're wondering, vanity never ends.

One person alone is not a full person: we exist in relation to others. I was one person: I risked becoming no person.

We are containers, it's only the insides of our bodies that are important.

He thought of it as a contest, like the children at school who would twist your arm and say Give in? Give in? until you did; then they would let go. He didn't love me, it was an idea of himself he loved and he wanted someone to join him, anyone would do, I didn't matter so I didn't have to care.

When push comes to shove, only one's own nightmares are of any interest or significance.

Change, we were sure, was for the better always. We were revisionists; what we revised was ourselves.

I suffer from my own multiplicity. Two or three images would have been enough, or four, or five. That would be allowed for a firm idea: This is she. As it is, I'm watery, I ripple, from moment to moment I dissolve into my other selves.

Her strongest prison is of her own construct.

I was shut up inside that doll of myself, and my true voice could not get out.

There was always that shadowy twin, thin when i was fat, fat when i was thin, myself in silvery narrative...

Our fragments made us.

At night, Toby breathed herself in. Her new self. Her skin smelled like honey and salt. And earth

It disturbs me that he can remember some of these things about himself, but not others; that the things he's lost or misplaced exist now only for me. If he's forgotten so much, what have I forgotten?

Storytelling is not a luxury to humanity; it's almost as necessary as bread. We cannot imagine ourselves without it, because the self is a story.

She's like my own reflection, in a mirror from which I am moving away. In