Quotes About Identity

What's the first thing a kid says when he learns how to talk? 'Tell me a story.' That's how we understand who we are, where we come from. Stories are everything. [179]

Becoming a person, of course, means finding your people, and your place among them

At that moment Mr. Lisbon had the feeling that he didn't know who she was, that children were only strangers you agreed to live with, and he reached out in order to meet her for the first time.

Lumea ajunsese la capat. Oriunde m-as fi dus, dadeam tot peste mine.

Cecila was weird, but we're not. And then: We just want to live. If anyone would let us.

our fellow Negro citizens could be summed up in something Tessie said after watching Sidney Poitier's performance in To Sir with Love, which opened a month before the riots. She said, "You see, they can speak perfectly normal if they want.

Remember where you're standing when the spotlight goes off, Lovell warned me once, when our book was a best-seller and the movie it spawned was in theatres. You'll have to find your own way off the stage.

One of the most striking aspects of OCD urges is that, except in the most severe cases, they are what is called ego-dystonic: they seem apart from, and at odds with, one's intrinsic sense of self.

Now I'm just like everybody else, and it's so funny, the way monogamy is funny, the way someone falling down in the street is funny. I entered a revolving door and emerged as a human being. When you think of me is my face electronically blurred?

Point? Maybe you aren't a Carrie or a Samantha or a Charlotte or a Miranda. Maybe you're just you.

If I were a lesbian and had a thing for narcissistic ex-sorority girls? I'd totally do me. Bitter is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, or Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office: A Memoir

Yeah, I'm over forty, flighty, and fluffy- I'd say I'm not ideal bouncer material.

Presently, Mary Mac—that's what we call her for short—has churned out more kids than I can count. It's like she's a hoarder, only for children. In terms of personal achievement, she's pretty much the patron saint of minivans and stretch marks. What is that meme I've seen about the prolific 19 Kids and Counting mother? Ah, yes, "It's a vagina, not a clown car." Add one persecution complex, stir, and, boom! Meet my older sister.

Recently, Howard Schultz, former CEO of Starbucks, came out against the term "billionaire," instead preferring to be called "a person of means," as though he's now ashamed of what he's built.

If it doesn't cost anything, you are the product.

Mine was the first generation of latchkey kids, referring to Generation Xers whose personal identity was, in part, shaped by the independence their working parents fostered when they left us alone after school.

I don't want to measure my success in clicks. I don't want my value as a person determined by retweets. When I die, I guarantee I won't care how many Tumblr followers I've had. And why is anyone following me in the first place, as I've yet to determine where I'm going?

The shot that won me over completely was of Coco clad in a pleated army-green skirt, with a matching military sweater, a tiny strand of pearls, a beanie, and wild-print knee socks, all by Gucci: it's like my id and my Girl Scout uniform hooked up in a fitting room at Bergdorf's.

Because if you base your self-worth on what everyone else thinks of you, you hand all your power over to other people and become dependent on a source outside of yourself for validation. Then you wind up chasing after something you have no control over, and should that something suddenly place its focus somewhere else, or change its mind and decide you're no longer very interesting, you end up with a full-blown identity crisis.

Never apologize for who you are. It lets the whole world down.

Somehow I thought I could make more of myself by making less of myself.

Mouse scurried to catch up with her, trying to match his strides to her long, fluid gait. She glanced down at his shabby garments and smudged face. "You'd best make certain nobody sees you with me," she reminded him. "You look like a street urchin." "I am a street urchin." He smirked up at her. "You were a street urchin.

But by God's grace, I am what I am!

Sometimes she wished she didn't have to hide. But she preferred it to being hunted by reporters again. Worse still, revealing who she was now would take necessary resources and attention away from this case. She wasn't having that. Focus must stay on the victims and catching this killer.