Quotes About Otherness

Everything which is human is alien to me.

He whom God has touched will always be a being apart: he is, whatever he may do, a stranger among men; he is marked by a sign.

The condition of being alienated and "othered" reflects the ways in which navigating Western societies as a Black person is an endlessly unsettling experience, something that might be ripped whole from the pages of a speculative novel. Because of this, the search for lost cultural touchstones is a gesture towards survival: it is an Afrofuturistic act. At its heart it is the creation of a possible future based on a reconstructed, or reimagined past. In this way, a ware is wages against erasure.

If we can look at another human being and categorise them as 'illegal,' or that chilling American word 'alien,' then what has become of our own humanity?

Maturity implies otherness... The art of living is the art of living with.

Bugün, ç?ld?rd?ktan, sevdikten, yan?p y?k?l?p yeniden do?rulduktan, sonunda benim için yürünebilecek, tekli?inde ?a??rtacak denli öteki yollara benzeyen tek yolu bulduktan, erincin ta??r?c? garipli?inde Yehuda'y? anlad?ktan sonra her ?ey kolay geliyor. Bundan sonra güçlü?e rastlamayaca??mdan de?il, a?k?n tüketilmez gücünü bildi?im için kolay geliyor.

I could not write about 'ordinary people' because I am not in the least interested in them.

She seems to float in a life next to ours, with limited contact.

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone.

he never spoke save in the debased patois of his environment;

relapsing into a bovine, half-amiable normality like that of the other hill-dwellers.

The Alien is gross, scary. There is something in a human being that looks at them and sees it as a cockroach. You can never feel nurturing towards the cockroach.

It wasn't really fair. He was only sorta human!

Why postulate a fundamental Hegelian concept of Otherness as the final explanation— and then carefully document the biological and historical circumstances that have pushed the class "women" into such a category— when one has never seriously considered the much simpler and more likely possibility that this fundamental dualism sprang from the sexual division itself?

I was made for another planet altogether. I mistook the way.

He was an intense lover, and his zeal created in me a new sense of my own otherness. Sometimes after he was gone, I would examine myself naked in the mirror, and for an instant would imagine I saw what he saw - an enchanted body.

If God wishes to reveal the love that he harbors for the world, this love has to be something that the world can recognize, in spite of, or in fact in, its being wholly other.

People were those who lived on my side of town. I didn't like them all, or, in fact, any of them very much, but they were people. These others, the strange pale creatures that lived in their alien unlife, weren't considered Folks.

We act in and against a world that remains other to us. Reduced to nothing but users, and our actions forced into the commodity form, our collective work and play produces a world over and against us, one that massively persists in its own habits of functioning.53 Worse, collective human labor made a world for a ruling class that keeps making not only itself but us in its image.

I may never recover. It was like an out-of-body experience. I'm an alien trying on human rituals.

Because most people have great difficulty recognizing the humanity of another person if they can't recognize that person's gender, the gender-changing person can evoke in others a primordial fear of monstrosity, or loss of humanness.

Or should one recognize that one becomes a foreigner in another country because one is already a foreigner from within?

The phobic has no other object than the abject. But that word, "fear"- a fluid haze an elusive clamminess- no sooner has it cropped up than it shades off like a mirage and permeates all words of the language with nonexistence, with a hallucinatory, ghostly glimmer. Thus, fear having been bracketed, discourse will seem tenable only if it ceaselessly confront that otherness, a burden both repellent and repelled, a deep well of memory that is unapproachable and intimate: the abject.