Quotes About Otherness

As historian Dick de Mildt argues, "By converting the criminal actors of the story into demon-like lunatics, we distance ourselves from them in a radical fashion, assuming them to belong to a different species which only remotely resembles us in physiognomy.

the ego likes to emphasize the 'otherness' of others

Yo no sé hablar como todos. Mis palabras suenan extrañas y vienen de lejos, de donde no es, de los encuentros con nadie.

Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.

As a little boy, I never felt comfortable with being human.

Whatever is not commonly seen is condemned as alien.

Really? That would be a first. I'm the son of Hades , Jason. I might as well be covered in blood or sewage, the way people treat me. I don't belong anywhere. I'm not even from this century . But that's not enough to set me apart.

It hasn't been easy, you know. Having the dead for company. Knowing that I'll never be accepted by the living. Only the dead respects me, and they only do that out of fear.

Being kind modified the extraordinary, alarming otherness of him, which was threefold—large, male and American.

She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic.

that there are people out there, like Madame, who don't hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you—of how you were brought into this world and why—and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs.

who don't hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you—of how you were brought into this world and why—and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs. The first time you glimpse yourself through the eyes of a person like that, it's a cold moment. It's like walking past a mirror you've walked past every day of your life, and suddenly it shows you something else, something troubling and strange.

So for a long time you were kept in the shadows, and people did their best not to think about you. And if they did, they tried to convince themselves you weren't really like us. That you were less than human, so it didn't matter.

So you're waiting, even if you don't quite know it, waiting for the moment when you realize that you really are different to them; that there are people out there, like Madame, who don't hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you--of how you were brought into this world and why--and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs.

So you're waiting, even if you don't quite know it, waiting for the moment when you realise that you really are different to them; that there are people out there, like Madame, who don't hate you or wish you any harm, but who nevertheless shudder at the very thought of you—of how you were brought into this world and why—and who dread the idea of your hand brushing against theirs.

And Sam? Well, she's not even human, so she doesn't count." "Excuse me?" Sam said. "Face it, you're not one of those bendo-things. You're a robot. A cyborg. Probably an evil one, programmed to murder us all in our sleep." Corey snickered. "Yeah?" Sam lifted a fist to Hayley. "You want to try that one again, blondie?" Hayley looked at Daniel and me. "I rest my case.

The walls are white as the white suits, polished clean as a refrigerator door, and the black face and hands seem to float against it like a ghost.

Wonder if Stephen King's like us or like them..?

Wonder if Stephen King's like us or them..?

Language The clichéd image of an alien emerging from a flying saucer and declaring 'Take me to your leader' highlights one problem in alien narratives. As soon as aliens speak, their otherness becomes compromised, because we associate language with a way of life and view it as one of the defining characteristics of humanity. One way out of this impasse in early SF was to use the convenience of an instant translation device.

Science fiction constantly interrogates the limits of identity and the nature of difference. The latter is frequently described through a quasi-allegorical displacement of the alien on to other countries and planets, following a strategy of encounter whereby readers are encouraged to re-examine their self-conceptions as a result of confrontation with the Other, with beings whose culture is rarely explored in its own right, but rather to highlight the markers of difference.

Life can find you only if you are paying real attention to something other than you own concerns, if you can hear and see the essence of otherness in the world, if you can treat the world as if it is not just a backdrop to your own journey, if you can have a relationship with the world that isn't based on triumphing over it or complaining about it.

If men were from Mars and women from Venus, I was from an unknown star in neither orbit. My sensitivity, as finely honed a skill as I possessed, still lacked a working edge with my Andrea.

My professor, he reminded us of Kant: to think by oneself, to think in accordance with oneself. Today they say that's logocentric, not politically correct. Streams must flow in the right direction so that they may converge. Why all this cultural bustling? Just to assure oneself that everyone is speaking of the same thing. Of what? Of Otherness.