Quotes About Reflection

Once you hear something, you can never return to the time before you heard it.

She had been in love so many times that she began to suspect she was not falling in love, but rather doing something much more ordinary

A few weeks after the worst day, I started writing lots of letters. I don't know why, but it was one of the only things that made my boots lighter.

What is being awake if not interpreting our dreams, or dreaming if not interpreting our wake?

I try not to remember the life that I didn't want to lose but lost and have to remember

I wasn't having second thoughts, but I was having thoughts.

It was the first time I had ever made love. I wondered if he knew that. It felt like crying. I wondered, Why does anyone ever make love?

If I'd been someone else in a different world I'd've done something different, but I was myself and the world was the world, so I was silent.

Something having been done just about everywhere just about always is no kind of justification for doing it now.

I wondered, for the first time in my life, if life was worth all the work it took to live. What exactly made it worth it?

Love itself became the object of her love. She loved herself in love, she loved loving love, as love loves loving, and was able, in that way, to reconcile herself with a world that fell so short of what she would have hoped for.

She wrote, I wish I could be a girl again, with a chance to live my life again. I have suffered so much more than I needed to. And the joys I have felt have not always been joyous. I could have lived differently.

It made me start to wonder if there were other people so lonely so close. I thought about "Eleanor Rigby." It's true, where do they all come from? And where do they all belong?

We stopped laughing, I took the world into me, rearranged it, and sent it back out as a question: Do you like me?

I'd lost count of the disappointments.

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

What? she said once to herself, and then once aloud, What? She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. How did she end up here, like this? How could there have been so much - so many moments, so many people and things, so many razors and pillows, timepieces and subtle coffins - without her being aware? How did her life live itself without her?

Sometimes one simply wants to disappear.

We shared the smile of recognizing ourselves in each other, how many imposters do I have? Do we all make the same mistakes, or has one of us gotten it right, or even just a bit less wrong, am I the imposter?

And here I am, instead of there. I'm sitting in this library, thousands of miles from my life, writing another letter I know I won't be able to send, no matter how hard I try and how much I want to. How did that boy making love behind that shed become this man writing this letter at this table?

I thought for a minute, and then I got heavy, heavy boots.

Memories are small prayers to God, if we believed in that sort of thing.

Everyone performs bad actions... A bad person is someone who does not lament his bad actions.

I regret how much I believed in the future.