Quotes About Identity

It's always me, isn't it? I'm not really a very nice person, but for some reason it's always me that they come to with their problems.Oh, Dexter, a savage inhuman monster has taken my boyfriend! Well damn it, I'm a savage inhuman monster, too—didn't that entitle me to some rest?

Nothing else loves me, nor ever will. Not even - especially - me. I know what I am and that's not a thing to love.

I was never more alive than when the Dark Passenger was driving.

I waved to everybody. Some of them even waved back. They knew me, had seen me go by before, always cheerful, a big hello for everybody. He was such a nice man. Very friendly. I can't believe he did those horrible things . . .

A man can take only so much. Even a phony man like me.

Hurray—I was someone else. I was not completely crazy yet. Seriously antisocial, of course, and somewhat sporadically homicidal, nothing wrong with that. But not crazy.

The whole point of wearing a disguise was to be seen wearing her.

Something it's reassuring to know I'm not the only one pretending to be normal.

Because no matter how far you may travel, you are what you are, and even when you are flying at thrilling new heights, circling the sun and thinking you belong in the halo of that perfect golden light, you do not. The wings always melt, and you always crash-land in your same old self.

What is it, I wonder, that they hope to Correct? I am what I am, irredeemably, irretrievably, implacably — as are most of my fellow desperadoes here in Correctional Facility. We are monsters.

What a frail thing a human being is—and without the Passenger, that is all I was, a poor imitation of a human being. Weak, soft, slow and stupid, unseeing, unhearing and unaware, helpless, hopeless, and harried.

We all make rules for ourselves. It's these rules that help define who we are. So when we break those rules, we risk losing ourselves and becoming something unknown. Who is Deb now? Who am I? Is this a new beginning? Or the beginning of the end?

Doakes had a first name! It was Albert - had anyone ever really called him that? Unthinkable. I had assumed his name was Sergeant.

Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn't seem like a big deal.

Who was I if I was no longer me?

What's Hemingway?" Astor said. I watched the crowd of look-alikes milling around on the sidewalk, jostling each other and slurping beer. "A man who grew a beard and drank a lot," I said.

And so there we were, balanced on a knife edge that was unfortunately only metaphorical. Sooner or later, I had to be me. But until then I would see an awful lot of Rita. She couldn't hold a candle to my old flame, the Dark Passenger, but I did need my secret identity. And until I escaped Doakes, Rita was my cape, red tights, and utility belt—almost the entire costume.

Steady, Dexter, I thought. This is just a small, painful reminder of who you are and where you came from, brought on by stress. It has nothing to do with operatic cattle.

Mr. Mustache spoke up, again without moving any facial muscles. "I neeeed," he said, drawing out the word pointlessly, "to learn Who. You. Are." That made even less sense than what Matthews had said, and I could think of no reply more penetrating than, "Oh, uh-huh Ã¢â'¬Â¦Ã¢â'¬Â It must have sounded just as feeble to him as it did to me, because he moved at last, turning his entire head in my direction and flipping up the sunglasses with one manicured finger.

But why?" I said. And because I like to give as good as I get, I added, "Don't you like who you are?" The

what fair-minded person could possibly call me "nothing but" a psychopath? I'm very good at board games, too.

Dorothy was right. There's no place like home. It

I stepped toward the car, trying to plan what to do, which was impossible because I did not know what they wanted, or even who they were. It was no longer believable that it was merely a random crazy—not if he knew where I lived. But who was it? Who had any reason to act like this? Among the living, I mean, because there were plenty of former victims who might have loved to come after me, but they were all far beyond any sort of action at all, other than decomposition. I

Oddly enough, I had found somebody. What, what? Deeply dead Dexter dating débutante doxies? Sex among the Undead? Has my need to imitate life gone all the way to faking orgasms?