Quotes About Reflection

Your unconscious mind takes the things you can't handle and plays with them while you sleep until some of the sharp corners are worn off.

The moving finger writes, and having writ Moves on. Nor all your piety and wit Can call it back to cancel half a line Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

You know what I realized?" "What?" "Most of the people I know are dead. I guess that happens

I looked down into my glass. It held club soda, but the way I was gazing into it you'd have thought it was filled with something stronger. I used to stare like that into glasses of whiskey, as if they contained coded answers. All they did was dissolve the questions, but there was a time when that was enough.

Forgiving himself came easy to him. His, he'd come to realize, was a forgiving nature.

I went into the bathroom and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sink. All my years looked back at me, and I could feel their weight, pressing down on my shoulders. I ran the shower hot and stood under it for a long time...

You may recall a Jules Feiffer cartoon—you may recall a hundred

Or cut my own throat as I had cut the throat of the girl. Wolfe Tone, jailed after the Irish Rebellion of 1798, had sawed through his throat with a penknife. I wondered if I could do the same. Would the hand falter?

Living proof of indiscretions makes bad company on the morning after.

Perhaps I've just mounted the initial stamp on a page that used to be blank. Perhaps I've filled the final space on that page. Or, as is more often the case, perhaps I've added a fifteenth stamp to a page, thus reducing its number of blank spaces from nineteen to eighteen. In any event, I'm looking at progress—and I take a moment to enjoy it.

Death is not always an occasion for sorrow.

What does it all

If today is a consummation devoutly to be wished, how can I regret anything that helped bring it into being?

And so we've had another night Of poetry and poses And each man knows he'll be alone When the sacred ginmill closes. —DAVE VAN RONK

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.

I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

I have done so many things in my life, she said to the mirror. Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?

I have decided to leave Clea's last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?

What do you believe? You never say anything. At the most you sometimes laugh.

books everywhere piled up in heaps, the rare companions of a solitude not self-imposed but sought.

Our inventions mirror our secret wishes.

But that is what islands are for; they are places where different destinies can meet and intersect in the full isolation of time.

the desire to be near the beloved object is at first not due to the idea of possessing it, but simply to let the two experiences compare themselves, like reflections in different mirrors... For from here love degenerates into habit, possession, and back to loneliness.

He hablado de la inutilidad del arte, pero no he dicho la verdad sobre el consuelo que procura.