Quotes About Uncertainty

Everything seemed to he breaking up:

What a mistake, above all, it had been to believe that I couldn't live without him, when for a long time I had not been at all certain that I was alive with him.

Was it possible? She had taken me with her hoping that as a punishment my parents would not send me to middle school? Or had she brought me back in such a hurry so that I would avoid punishment? Or - I wonder today - did she want at different moments both things?

She was like that, she threw things off balance just to see if she could put them back in some other way.

You can't leave me here to hope, when in reality you've already decided everything.

That people, even more than things, lost their boundaries and overflowed into shapelesness is what most frightened her.

I was so afraid that I thought I was sick. But was I sick? Did I really have a murmur in my heart? No. The only problem has always been the disquiet of my mind. I can't stop it, I always have to do, redo, cover, uncover, reinforce, and then suddenly undo, break.

What's got into me? Do I want children? Do I want to be a mamma, nursing and singing lullabies? Marriage plus pregnancy? And if my mother should emerge from my stomach just now when I think I'm safe?

Fiz muitas coisas em minha vida, mas jamais convicta, sempre me senti um tanto descolada de minhas próprias ações.

What have I done, she thought, dazed by wine, and what is this gold circle, this glittering zero I've stuck my finger in.

When I opened my eyes again, five hours later, at seven o'clock on Saturday August 4th, I had trouble getting my bearings. The hardest day of the ordeal of my abandonment was about to begin, but I didn't know it yet.

de pequeña sabía que nos moríamos, siempre lo he sabido, pero nunca pensé que fuera a pasarme a mí, y ahora tampoco termino de creérmelo.

Il cane se ne era andato attraverso uno strappo nella rete degli eventi. Ne lasciamo tanti, lacerazioni dell'incuria quando mettiamo insieme causa ed effetto. L'essenziale è che la corda, l'intreccio che ora mi reggeva, tenesse.

Acaso todo en ella era fruto del desorden de las ocasiones?

Quieres toda la vida a personas que nunca sabes realmente quiénes son

This is what awaits me, I thought. Evenings like this. Appearing at the house of strangers, marked as a woman waiting to remake her life.

El único problema ha sido siempre la agitación de la cabeza. No puedo detenerla, siempre tengo que hacer, rehacer, cubrir, descubrir, reforzar, y luego, de repente, deshacer, romper.

desde chico no sólo sabía que no era lo que los demás creían, sino tampoco lo que yo mismo creía ser. Me decía: soy otra cosa, una cosa que permanece oculta en mis venas, no tiene nombre y espera. Pero no sabía qué era esa cosa y, sobre todo, no sabía cómo podía ser yo...

Para qué habrán servido entonces todas estas páginas. Me proponía aferrarla, tenerla otra vez a mi lado, y me moriré sin saber si lo he conseguido.

Era el hombre que siempre había amado, o un desconocido al que estaba obligando a asumir una fisonomía clara y definitiva?

There are moments when what exists on the edges of our lives, and which, it seems, will be in the background forever—an empire, a political party, a faith, a monument, but also simply the people who are part of our daily existence—collapses in an utterly unexpected way, and right when countless other things are pressing upon us.

No, words rarely go to the right place, and if they do, it's only for a very brief time. Otherwise they're useful for speaking nonsense, as now. Or for pretending that everything is under control." "Pretending? You who have always kept everything under control, you were pretending?" "Why not? It's unavoidable to pretend a little.

Then I felt as if my thoughts were cut off in the middle, absorbing and yet defective, with an urgent need for verification, for development, yet without conviction, without faith in themselves.

I slipped away, and am still slipping away, within these lines that are intended to give me a story yet in fact are nothing, nothing of mine, nothing that has really begun or really been brought to completion, only a tangled knot, and nobody, not even she who at this moment is writing, knows if it contains the right thread for a story or is merely a snarled confusion of suffering, without redemption.