Quotes About Reflection

Words are catch-basins of experience, fingerprints and footprints of the past that the literary detective may scrutinize in order to sleuth out the history of human consciousness.

Words contain the "souls" or minds of people in the past; as such, they tell the story of consciousness.

If it means something, take it to heart. If it means nothing, it's nothing. Let it go.

I am too dark in my heart tonight.

Nothing stands still, except in our memory.

A habit of solitude in early childhood is not easily broken. Indeed, it may prove lifelong.

When you're my age, Tom, you live in the Past a great deal. You remember it; you dream of it.

I don't know then that one day I won't be seventeen. I don't know that youth doesn't last, that it's only a moment, and then it disappears and by the time you finally realize it, it's too late. It's finished, vanished, lost. There are some around me who can sense it; the adults repeat it constantly but I don't listen. Their words roll over me but don't stick. Like water off the feathers of a duck's back. I'm an idiot. An easygoing idiot.

Have you noticed how the most beautiful landscapes lose their brilliance as soon as our thoughts prevent us from seeing them properly?

Il me rend à la solitude. La plus profonde, celle qu'on ressent au cœur d'une foule.

We are alone in the world. I've never enjoyed the rain so much.

Je voulais juste t'écrire que j'ai été heureux pendant ces mois que nous avons passés ensemble, que je n'ai jamais été aussi heureux, et que je sais déjà que je ne serai plus jamais aussi heureux.

No sé que nunca volveré a tener diecisiete años, no sé que la juventud vuela, que apenas dura un instante, que desaparece enseguida y cuando te das cuenta ya es demasiado tarde, ya se ha terminado, se ha volatilizado, la has perdido

I've seen the wedding pictures, my mother put them in an album. She looks at them regularly, she must like to remember her youth. (Or else she confuses youth with happiness, as people frequently do.)

In any case, I like to repeat his name to myself in secret. I like to write it on scraps of paper. I am stupidly sentimental: that hasn't changed much.

fundamental truth: that in the end, death is only a matter between you and yourself?

here are the lost years won back with words,

I did not understand then that the bac was the end of us.

I just wanted to write to tell you that I have been happy during these months together, that I have never been so happy and that I already know I will never be so happy again.

I say to myself: Basically, what's new? Don't we already spend most of our time avoiding each other? Missing each other? I smile at the double meaning—an unsightly, tragic smile, of course.

Those who have not taken this step, who have not come to terms with themselves, are not necessarily frightened, they are perhaps helpless, disoriented, lost as one is in the middle of a forest that's too dark or dense or vast.

It was at the end of the day, at twilight--the hour we call "between a dog and a wolf.

J'ajoute : c'est à ce moment-là qu'on s'est perdus de vue, lui et moi. J'articule ces derniers mots sans y mettre le moindre affect, comme si la vie, c'était ça, simplement ça, se fréquenter et se perdre de vue et continuer à vivre, comme s'il n'y avait pas des déchirements, des séparations qui laissent exsangues, des ruptures dont on peine à se remettre, des regrets qui vous poursuivent longtemps après.

Cette chambre est un navire. Un marie à bord duquel nous naviguons, sur des mers calmes ou déchainées, à la recherche de rivages paisibles ou accidentés. Il y a des soleils impressionnants et puis des cours de sirocco. Il y a des étendues d'eau à perte de vue et puis, brusquement, la côté. Il y a ce roulis incessant, qui nous berce ou nous secoue, qui nous accompagne toujours. Nous sommes des marins égarés, à bord d'un bateau ivre.