Quotes About Mind

Guilt was never a rational thing; it distorts all the faculties of the human mind, it perverts them, it leaves a man no longer in the free use of his reason, it puts him into confusion

Power gradually extirpates for the mind every humane and gentle virtue.

No power so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.

To begin with, we put the proposition: pure phenomenology is the science of pure consciousness.

Merely fact-minded sciences make merely fact-minded people.

All forms of perception, according to Husserl, presuppose an intentional structure of consciousness, and it is in this intentional structure that the primordial link between consciousness and the world is to be sought.

Theodore," [Theodore Sr] said, eschewing boyish nicknames, "you have the mind but you have not the body, and without the help of the body the mind cannot go as far as it should. You must make your body. It is hard drudgery to make one's body, but I know you will do it.

It is the mynd, that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore: For some, that hath abundance at his will, Hath not enough, but wants in greatest store; And other, that hath litle, askes no more, But in that litle is both rich and wise. For wisedome is most riches; fooles therefore They are, which fortunes doe by vowes deuize, Sith each vnto himselfe his life may fortunize.

The Muse's friend, Tea, does our fancy aid; Repress those vapors which the head invade; And keeps that palace of the soul serene....

She was a strange mixture of tomboy and bookworm, which was a mercifully kind arrangement for both body and mind.

To Those Without Pity Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.

Hard, hard it is, this anxious autumn To lift the heavy mind from its dark forebodings;

I turn away reluctant from your light, And stand irresolute, a mind undone, A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly, Surrounded by impenetrable gloom, Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark, Till I become accustomed to the dark.

The mind, at length bereft Of thinking and its pain, Will soon disperse again, And nothing will remain: No, not a thing be left. Only the ardent eye, Only the listening ear Can say, "The thrush was here!" Can say, "His song was clear!" Can live, before it die.

Pity me that the heart is slow to learn What the swift mind beholds at every turn.

Lo mejor de mi vida, y quizá lo peor, sucede en mi mente. Lo que allí se genera, ideas, sueños, anhelos o imágines lancinantes del deseo, rebasa -con mucho- las evidencias avasallantes de lo real

Con este consuelo me metí en la cama y traté de dormirme repitiendo para mis adentros la hora en que quería despertarme, pues sé que el subconsciente, además de desvirtuar nuestra infancia, tergiversar nuestros afectos, recordarnos lo que ansiamos olvidar, revelarnos nuestra abyecta condición y destrozarnos, en suma, la vida, cuando se le antoja y a modo de compensación, hace las veces de despertador.

My sole literary ambition is to write one good novel, then retire to my hut in the desert, assume the lotus position, compose my mind and senses, and sink into meditation, contemplating my novel

A drink a day keeps the shrink away.

Ah yes, the head is full of books. The hard part is to force them down through the bloodstream and out through the fingers.

Orthodoxy is a relaxation of the mind accompanied by a stiffening of the heart.

The beauty of Delicate Arch explains nothing, for each thing in it's way, when true to it's own character, is equally beautiful. If Delicate Arch has any significance it lies, I will venture, in the power of the odd and unexpected to startle the senses and surprise the mind out of their ruts of habit, to compel us into a reawakened awareness of the wonderful-that which is full of wonder.

obedience is such a fundamental habit of the contemporary American mind that any kind of disobedience is regarded as a form of insanity.

The miracle of eggs. In the beginning was the egg. The chicken was an afterthought, a mere transmission mechanism for the production of further eggs. The world itself is egglike. Those astrophotos of galaxies, spiral nebulae—do they not resemble fresh eggs broken in the pan? The universe itself may be no more than one gigantic cosmic egg. And the function of mind? To fertilize that egg. Creating—who knows what grotesque and Godlike monster. Best not think about it.