Quotes About Introspection

Kitaplar bize ne tür eÅŸekler ve aptallar olduÄŸumuzu hat?rlatmak içindir. Kitaplar, tören alay? büyük bir gürültü içinde caddede ilerlerken, Sezar'?n kula??na 'Unutma, Sezar, sen de ölümlüsün' diyen pretoryen muhaf?zlar?d?r.

bums on the outside, libraries inside.

I sometimes get up at night when I can't sleep and walk down into my library and open one of my books and read a paragraph and say, 'My God, did I write that?

We haven't been too bad, have we? No, nor enormously good. I suppose that's the trouble - we haven't been much of anything except us, while a big part of the world was busy being lots of awful things.

We all have our harps to play. And it's up to you now to know with which ear you'll listen.

Go home.' Montag fixed his eyes upon her, quietly. 'Go home and think of your first husband divorced and your second husband killed in a jet and your third husband blowing his brains out, go home and think of the dozens of abortions you've had, go home and think of that and your damn Caesarian sections, too, and your children who hate your guts! Go home and think how it all happened and what did you ever do to stop it? Go home, go home!' he yelled.

She wanted to get at the hate of them all, to pry at it and work at it until she found a little chink, and then pull out a pebble or a stone or a brick and then a part of the wall, and, once started, the whole edifice might roar down and be done away with.

Why waste your final hours racing about your cage denying you're a squirrel?

I want to hold onto this funny thing. God, it's gotten big on me. I don't know what it is. I'm so damned unhappy, I'm so mad, and I don't know why. I feel like I'm putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I'm saving a lot of things, and I don't know what. I might even start reading books.

I don't know anything anymore

I was never young. Whoever I was then is dead. That's more of your quills. I don't want a hide full, thanks. I have always figured that you die each day and and each day is a is a box, you see, all numbered and neat; but never go back and lift the lids, because you have died a couple thousand times in your life, and that's a lot of corpses, each dead a different way, each with a worse expression. Each of those days is a different you, somebody you don't know or understand or want to understand.

He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out.

By living well, by observing as you live, by reading well and observing as you read, you have fed Your Most Original Self.

For, let's face it, digression is the soul of wit. Take philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet's father's ghost and what stays is dry bones.

Me? I'm the original sad man. I read a book and it makes me sad. See a film: sad. Plays? they really work me over.

And the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the nieces, the nephews, that lived in those walls, the gibbering pack of tree apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing and said it loud, loud, loud.

I feel like I've been saving up a lot of things, and I don't know what.

But no man's a hero to himself. I've lived with me a lifetime. I know everything worth knowing about myself-- ~Something Wicked This Way Comes

Let me alone, said Mildred Let you alone! He almost cried out with laughter. Letting you alone is easy, but how can I leave myself alone? That's what's wrong. We need not to be let alone. We need to be upset and stirred and bothered, once in a while, anyway. Nobody bothers anymore. Nobody thinks. Let a baby alone, why don't you? What would you have in twenty years? A savage, unable to think or talk--like us!

If I was ever a rare fine summer person, that's long ago. Most of us are half-and-half. The August noon in us works to stave off the November chills. We survive by what little Fourth of July wits we've stashed away. But there are times when we're all autumn people.

He realized that all men were like this; that each person was to himself one alone. One oneness, a unit in a society, but always afraid.

It wasn't going places. It was being between...Mostly it was space. So much space. I liked the idea of nothing on top, nothing on the bottom, and a lot of nothing in between, and me in the middle of the nothing.

If it seems I've come the long way around, perhaps I have. But I wanted to show what we all have in us, that it has always been there, and so few of us bother to notice. When people ask me where I get my ideas, I laugh. How strange -- we're so busy looking out, to find ways and means, we forget to look in.

It was a simple thing. All terror is a simplicity. (Interval In Sunlight)