Quotes About Reflection

There were no ashtrays and no sign of my philosophic cowpoke. I sensed he had been heading this way and most likely, spotting the spanking new paint job, just kept on going. I looked around. Nothing to hold me here, either, not even the dried carcass of a dead bee.

I tried to write something about Jesse but couldn't, as her face echoed her father's and the proud palace where the ghosts of our old life dwell.

I stared up at the plaster ceiling as I had done as a child. It seemed to me that the vibrating patterns overhead were sliding into place. The mandala of my life.

Such things that disappear in time that we find ourselves longing to see again. We search for them in close-up as we search for our hands in a dream.

Sometimes I wanted to raise my hands and stop. But stop what? Maybe just growing up.

said good-bye to my corner. —What will happen to the tables and chairs? I asked.

How is it that we never completely comprehend our love for someone until they're gone? (P.92)

Varför måste man skriva? För att ställa sig vid sidan om, som i en kokong, försjunken i ensamhet, på trots mot andras behov. Virginia Woolf hade sitt rum. Proust sina stängda fönsterluckor. Marguerite Duras sitt tysta hus. Dylan Thomas sin enkla bod. Alla var de ute efter en tomhet att fylla med ord. Orden som ska tränga in i orörda marker, uppdaga oinmutade associationer, ge uttryck åt oändligheten.

I thought of Thomas Paine's words: these are the times that try men's souls. Outside, the rain ceased but high winds remained. And what was truth remained the truth. It was the last day of the year of the monkey and the golden cockerel was crowing, for the insufferable yellow-haired confidence man had been sworn in, with a Bible no less, and Moses and Jesus and Buddha and Mohamed seemed somewhere else entirely.

I can examine how, but not why, I wrote what I did, or why I had so perversely deviated from my original path. Can one, tracking and successfully collaring a criminal, truly comprehend the criminal mind? Can we truly separate the how and the why?

In my low periods, I wondered what was the point of creating art. For whom? Are we animating God? Are we talking to ourselves?

I wished nothing more than to say my prayers, yet these words troubled me and I plagued her with questions. What is the soul? What color is it? I suspected my soul, being mischievous, might slip away while I was dreaming and fail to return.

I came to experience a different kind of prayer, a silent one, requiring more listening than speaking.

the signs that mock me as I go.

I felt a fleeting pang in my heart for I knew that innocent phase of our life had passed.

Suddenly he looked up and said, "Patti, did art get us?" I looked away, not really wanting to think about it. "I don't know, Robert. I don't know." Perhaps it did, but no one could regret that. Only a fool would regret being had by art; or a saint.

I'm sure I could write endlessly about nothing. If only I had nothing to say.

Ve o an dü? gören herkesin kendi devirlerindekileri dü?ledi?ini geçirmi?tim akl?mdan. Antik Yunan uygarl??? kendi tanr?lar?n?n dü?lerini kurdu. Emily Brontë çorak arazilerin.

My mother, sitting at the kitchen table, the steam rising from her cup entwining with the smoke curling from her cigarette resting on an invariably chipped ashtray.

When I look at it now, I never see me. I see us.

It occurs to me that the young look beautiful as they sleep and the old, such as myself, look dead.

I awoke with a mild hangover.

I could feel progress and left with a little bit of optimism. -- Anxious for some permanency, I guess I needed to be reminded how temporal permanency is.

Robert morente, creava il silenzio. Io, destinata alla vita, prestai ascolto a un silenzio che avrebbe richiesto un'esistenza intera per trovare le parole.