Quotes About Thoughts

she says, "A penny for your thoughts?" I don't feel like sharing my thoughts, so instead I challenge the question. "Really? Is that all they're worth? A penny?" She sighs. "It's just an expression, Caden." "Well, find out when the expression was thought up, and then adjust for inflation." She shakes her head. "Only you would go there, Caden." Then she leaves me to stew in thoughts I refuse to sell.

biorÄ™ teraz cztery proszki dwa razy dziennie. Jeden, ?eby wyÅ'Ä…czy? moje myÅ›li, a drugi, ?eby wyÅ'Ä…czy? moje dziaÅ'ania. Trzeci, ?eby zapobiec skutkom ubocznym dwóch pierwszych i czwarty, ?eby ten trzeci nie czuÅ' siÄ™ samotny. Rezultat jest taki, ?e mój mózg lÄ…duje gdzieÅ› na orbicie za Saturnem, gdzie nie bÄ™dzie nikomu przeszkadzaÅ', zwÅ'aszcza mnie

People are vessels, Jeri had said to her. The hold whatever's poured into them.

There's this thing in my head that I have to purge onto the page before it changes the shape of my brain.

Putting me at the forefront of his thoughts drew out what little energy he had left, just as when I had focused on helping him - and I realize this is the true core of human nature: When we've lost the strength to save ourselves, we somehow find the strength to save each other.

Storm fronts that linger upon the horizon; white plastic places where every thought dies in; swabbies and cocktails and parrots' bright wings; these are a few of his least-favorite things.

I should already know that my thoughts are never alone.

She closed her eyes again, and tried to reboot. Human brains, she knew, could be like computers, especially in the time that hung between sleep and wakefulness. Sometimes you said strange things, did even stranger things, and once in a while you couldn't figure out exactly how you got where you got.

His one-eight feels a whole lot bigger when I spend time hanging around in his grey matter.

I've been having lots of wrong thoughts, Lev tells Pastor Dan. There are no wrong thoughts, only thoughts that need to be worked through.

Maybe scythes hired people to sleep for them.

Ascend beyond the sickly atmosphere to a higher plane, and purify yourself by drinking as if it were ambrosia the fire that fills and fuels Emptiness. Free from the futile strivings and the cares which dim existence to a realm of mist, happy is he who wings an upward way on mighty pinions to the fields of light; whose thoughts like larks spontaneously rise into the morning sky; whose flight, unchecked, outreaches life and readily comprehends the language of flowers and of all mute things.

Wandering aimlessly, broken by my thoughts, Which slowly sharpened daggers at my heart

He whose thoughts, like skylarks, Toward the morning sky take flight —Who hovers over life and understands with ease The language of flowers and silent things!

Il caos intero piombò in quell'intelligenza (tout le chaos ruola dans cette intelligence)

Qu'est-ce que le cerveau humain, sinon un palimpseste immense et naturel?

if I had a book or a drink then I didn't think too much of other things—fools create their own paradise.

I tried teeling myself that feeling guilty was just a sickness of some sort. That it was men without guilt who made progress in life. Men who were able to lie, to cheat, men who knew all the shortcuts. Cortez. He didn't fuck around. Neither did Vince Lombardi. But no matter how much I thought about it, I still felt bad.

Death is a sophisticated afternoon in Santa Fe, with nobody saying what they are thinking.

but the man with the whip was a part of the whole no matter how seemingly useless and stupid and once great thoughts often with time become useless and stupid. but Schopenhauer's rage was so beautiful so well placed that I laughed out loud then put him down next to Nietzsche who was also all too human.

and this being mixed in with a minor intellectualism confused me somewhat

Pero, ¿qué demonios saca un hombre de pensar? Sólo problemas.

Todas aquelas pessoas. O que estão fazendo? O que estão pensando? Todos nós vamos morrer, que circo! Só isso deveria fazer com que amássemos uns aos outros, mas não faz. Somos aterrorizados e esmagados pelas trivialidades, somos devorados por nada.

Karayolunda seyreden arabalar?n ???klar?n? görebiliyorum. Sonu gelmeyen bir ???k ak???. Bu kadar insan. Ne yaparlar? Ne düÅŸünürler? Hepimiz öleceÄŸiz, hepimiz, ne sirk! Bunu bilmek birbirimizi daha çok sevmemiz için yeterli bir neden olmal?, ama deÄŸil. Son derece önemsiz ÅŸeyler bizi dehÅŸete sürükleyip dümdüz ediyor, yutuyor...