Quotes About Identity

Everybody has a story

Everybody has a story. It's like families. You might not know who they are, might have lost them, but they exist all the same. You might drift apart or you might turn your back on them, but you can't say you haven't got them. Same goes for stories.

Emmeline didn't call me anything. She didn't need to, for I was always there. You only need names for the absent.

Emmeline and Adeline. Unmistakable. Two manes of red hair, two pairs of black shoes; one child in the navy poplin that the Missus had put Emmeline in that morning, the other in green.

So tell me about yourself. What are your favourite books? What do you dream about? Whom do you love?

Margaret Lea." "The biographer.

Her knowledge of her own mind was what he admired about her. To expect her to bend to his wishes would be to expect her to be other than herself.

Mr. Lomax had signed for Emmeline. That told me that she had survived the fire, at least. And on the second line, the name I had been hoping for. Vida Winter. And after it, in brackets, the words, formerly known as Adeline March. Proof. Vida Winter was Adeline March. She was telling the truth.

In short, Emmeline adapted to her twin's absence. She learned how to exist apart. Yet still they reconnected and were twins again. Though Emmeline was not the same twin as before, and this was something Adeline did not immediately know.

Just what kind of a person are you, Miss Lea?" I fixed my mask in place before replying

It was odd to think that only a few years ago she had been Helena Greville. It seemed a lot longer. When she thought about that girl now it was as if she was thinking about someone she used to know, and know quite well, but would never see again. Helena Greville was gone for good.

It was Hester herself, made word.

Diane Setterfield

That name was Adeline March.

We were both lone twins.

A man like me gets used to recognizing himself from the inside. The inside is what I am familiar with. Nor am I much given to studying my outward appearance in the looking glass. It is a curious thing, to see oneself in a photograph. It is a meeting with the outer man.

A child is not an empty vessel, Fleet, to be formed in whatever way the parent thinks fit. They are born with their own hearts and they cannot be made otherwise, no matter what love a man lavishes on them.

Do you mean to tell me, Aurelius, that you are a foundling?" "Yes. That is the word for what I am. A foundling.

The beginning, perhaps. The girl without the mother. But after that . . . I wish someone could tell me what it means. I wish there was someone who could just tell me the truth.

earl, his mother a black servant girl—had brought

Everybody has a story. It's like families. You might not know who they are, might have lost them, but they exist all the same. You might drift apart or you might turn your back on them, but you can't say you haven't got them. Same goes for stories. So," she concluded, "everybody has a story. When are you going to tell me yours?" "I'm not.

Thomas Ambrose Proctor!

Behind it a pile of old rags with a hat on top organized itself into a man, albeit a scruffy one, and struggled to its feet.

We're all just a range of shades of brown, sometimes with a little bit of other colors mixed in, like pink and red. But people are funny about stuff like that. We all share the same ancestors, if you go back enough generations. We all come from Africa.