Quotes About Reflection

Always running and always wanting to go back but always being farther and farther away until finally it was just a scene in a movie where a girl says hello into the cauldron of the world and you are just a woman watching the movie with her husband on the couch and his legs are across your lap and you have to go to the bathroom.

I had a joint once and I didn't feel right for a whole year.

You will eat, you will laugh at stupid things, you will stay up all night just to see what it feels like, you will fall painfully in love, you will have babies of your own, you will doubt and regret and yearn and keep a secret. You will get old and decrepit, and you will die, exhausted from all that living.

But as the sun rose I crested the mountain of my self-pity and remembered I was always going to die at the end of this life anyway.

I have to do it to day. It's the first day of the rest of my life. Oh. I had a day like that last week. Really? What happened? I woke up and thought, This is the first day of the rest of my life. Then what happened? I drove to work. Oh.

on the long ride home, neither of us said anything. we were kites flying in opposite directions attached to strings held by one hand.

She fired him on the spot—her face shaking with regret about things she had not nipped while they were still in the bud.

But I couldn't put a face to the feeling; it was a dissolving thought, like a dream that hurries away when you approach it.

And she felt a real sense of loss. Even though she knew she had never had an accent. It was the birthmark, which in its density had lent color even to her voice. She didn't miss the birthmark, but she missed her Norwegian heritage, like learning of new relatives, only to discover they have just died.

And our very few intimacies were simply discontinued. Where did they go, those things we did? Were they recycled?

I do write a lot from personal experience, but I also embellish a bit.

?i ce masc? de tifon, ce m?nu?i chirurgicale te-ar putea proteja de infec?ia emanat? de amintire?

Erau frumo?i (ochii Irinei n.m.) nu cum ai spune: o floare e frumoas?, sau: un copil e frumos, ci cum spui: e frumos c? exist? flori sau copii.

Cu neputin?? de spus de ce tr?iesc pe lume unii oameni, care m?nânc? pe apucate, beau pe apucate, dorm pe apucate È™i plodesc pe apucate, niciodat? cu un gând pentru ziua de mâine, niciodat? cu o strângere de inim? pentru ziua de ieri.

În curtea interioar? ce ne strângea pur È™i simplu la umeri ca o hain? prea strâmt?, vântul negru È™i cald ne învelea într-un fel de tristeÈ›e creol?, parc? venit? din amintiri foarte vechi.

No pretendo explicar aquí por qué la amé, un asunto inexplicable como todo lo natural. Tampoco quiero siquiera relatar aquí qué nos sucedió hace diez (¿tal vez once o doce?) días. Pienso tan solo en convocar a mi pasado, o tal vez en remodelar el pasado, o en inventarlo, o en hacer todo a la vez, pues me interesa tan solo tener un pasado, una serie de imágenes que sean o que sustituyan el caos en que me muevo ahora.

De levenslijn van ons echte bestaan verhardt tijdens onze voorbijgang, versteent tot een fossiel en krijgt de samenhang, maar ook de eenvoud van het noodlot, terwijl al onze levens die hadden kunnen zijn, die zich op ieder willekeurig moment van het winnende bestaan hadden kunnen losmaken, spookachtige stippellijntjes blijven: creoden, kwantumfaseovergangen, doorzichtig en fascinerend als de bollen die vegeteren in een bloemkas.

Net als seks, net als drugs, net als alle manipulaties van onze geest, die eindelijk eens uit je schedel zou willen uitbreken en de wijde wereld in trekken, is literatuur een werktuig dat eerst gelukzaligheid produceert, en vervolgens teleurstelling. Na tienduizend boeken te hebben gelezen, kun je niet om de onvermijdelijke vraag heen: waar was mijn leven al die tijd?

Misschien lezen we alleen maar om terug te keren naar de leeftijd toen we nog konden huilen met een boek in de armen, toentertijd, tussen kinderjaren en puberteit, in de bekoorlijke schijnwerper van ons leven.

Chaque matin, quand je me regarde dans le miroir, je ne vois personne. [În fiecare diminea??, când m? iut în oglind?, nu v?d pe nimeni.] p. 42

Después de leer decenas de miles de libros, no puedes evitar preguntarte: ¿dónde ha estado mi vida durante todo este tiempo?

Quizá no viva dentro de una historia importante, quizá sea tan solo un personaje secundario pero, para un hombre que afronta el final de su vida, cualquier perspectiva es preferible a la de desaparecer para siempre

Intr-un fel, viaÅ£a ta avut sens dac?, în ÅŸirul nesfarÅŸit de momente banale, cenuÅŸii, triste, ruÅŸinoase, tic?loase, mizerabile, plicticoase din care orice via?? este compus?, s-a aprins totuÅŸi de cateva ori sau doar o singur? dat?, scanteia cutemur?toare a fericirii.

Exist pentru c? m? caut pe mine însumi. Nu m? caut ca s? m? g?sesc; faptul c? m? caut pe mine însumi este semnul c? deja m-am g?sit.