Quotes About Identity

Don't ever try to be normal because it's the first symptom of a terminal disease. As soon as you feel the need to be normal coming on, get the antidote. ... Just make sure you're living your life; don't let normal pretend to be you.

Don't you know the name of your lonely, Walker?

We are our choices

cerca di non arrabbiarti troppo con chi pensa di conoscerti meglio di quanto tu conosca te stesso. Ha buone intenzioni.

Well, he and his wife had both been devout evangelicals for a while. They had these two kids and then she had an incredible job giving birth to the next one. The upshot was that she lost her religion - with a vengeance - and walked out on him, taking these three daughters with her. Faith, Hope and Brenda.

Das Pub. Das Britannia. Ein uriges altes Wirtshaus, so britisch wie … der Bowlerhut und Fisch und Chips, stellvertretend für die beste Gastlichkeit, die unser Land zu bieten hat.« Mr Ellis erschauderte. »Die armen Belgier. Das wollen wir ihnen also zumuten, ja? Würstchen mit Kartoffelbrei und Schweinspastete von vorletzter Woche, heruntergespült mit einem Pint lauwarmes Bitter. Leute sind schon wegen weniger ausgewandert.«Ã¯Â¿Â½

You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you because you're all the same.

You laugh at me becuse I am different. I laugh at you becuse your all the same.

You laugh at me because I'm different, I laugh at you cause you're all the same.

Our culture is an edifice built of external memories, a way of fending off mortality.

Patty knew, in her heart, that he was wrong in his impression of her. And the mistake she went to go on to make, the really big life mistake, was to go along with Walter's version of her in spite of knowing that it wasn't right. He seemed so certain of her goodness that eventually he wore her down.

she was so much a personality and so little anything else that even staring straight at her he had no idea what she really looked like.

I find it a huge strain to be responsible for my tastes and be known and defined by them.

How could I have thought that I needed to cure myself in order to fit into the 'real' world? I didn't need curing, and the world didn't, either; the only thing that did need curing was my understanding of my place in it. Without that understanding - without a sense of belonging to the real world - it was impossible to thrive in an imagined one.

And this of course, was the simplest definition of depression that he knew of: strongly disliking yourself.

Serious fans always need to feel uniquely connected to the object of their fandom; they jealously guard those points of connection, however tiny or imaginary, that justify the feeling of uniqueness.

There's the imperative to keep secrets, and the imperative to have them known. How do you know that you're a person, distinct from other people? By keeping certain things to yourself.

He'd lost track of what he wanted, and since who a person was what a person wanted, you could say that he'd lost track of himself.

What made drugs perpetually so sexy was the opportunity to be other. Years after he'd figured out that pot only made him paranoid and sleepless, he still got hard-ons at the thought of smoking it. Still lusted for that jailbreak.

It's like having one red sock in a load of white laundry. One red sock, and nothing is ever white again.

Parents are programmed to want the best for their kids, regardless of what they get in return. That's what love is supposed to be like, right? But in fact, if you think about it, that's kind of a strange belief. Given what we know about the way people really are. Selfish and shortsighted and egotistical and needy. Why should being a parent, in and of itself, somehow confer superior-personhood on everybody who tries it? Obviously it doesn't.

It offended his sense of himself, because he was an individual from an age of individuals, and a string of lights was, like him, an individual thing. No matter how little the thing had cost, to throw it away was to deny its value...

To paraphrase Frank Zappa, she'd thought it was a man she wanted, but instead it was a muffin.

For three years, all through junior high, my social death was grossly overdetermined. I had a large vocabulary, a giddily squeaking voice, horn-rimmed glasses, poor arm strength, too-obvious approval from my teachers, irresistible urges to shout unfunny puns, a near-eidetic acquaintance with J.R.R. Tolkien, a big chemistry lab in my basement, a penchant for intimately insulting any unfamiliar girl unwise enough to speak to me, and so on.