Quotes About Introspection

How strange it is, to be walking away. Is it possible that I am really going to leave Ray—here? Is it possible that he won't be coming home with me in another day or two, as we'd planned? Such a thought is too profound for me to grasp. It's like fitting a large unwieldy object in a small space. My brain hurts, trying to contain it.

I will be the clinician of my own pathology.

As long as you're in motion, your perspective is obscured. Only when you reach the summit and turn to look back, can you be at peace.

A familiar story, Marya instructs herself—a woman yearning to be completed in a man, by way of a man. As if she hadn't a soul of her own.

I am infatuated with the private life, and with anonymity; perhaps even invisibility.

How alone this was going to be.

you had to have a deep, mysterious soul to want to destroy yourself. The shallower you are, the safer. Colborne

Lionel turned his thoughts eagerly inward, to discover that inward was perilous, too; his soul was a sort of curved reflective surface that distorts, as in a funhouse mirror, the face of one peering into it. You might be anyone, any face. The face is mere skin. Accident. He seemed at such times to be approaching a profound yet unspeakable truth: that our identities are accidents.

I lock my door upon myself - a poet had said. I turn my key and there's -- happiness.

There's a sort of melancholy romance to the experience of being lonesome. I think of reading as a kind of romantic alone activity that you're doing. The image would include being curled up somewhere on a rainy day and you're reading very intensely involved in a world that no one can see because it's inside your head.

Much of the time he lay part-dressed on his bed, sipping gin, and thinking, and thinking, - though what it was, of which he thought, he seemed not to know.

The mysteries of the female sex! We men can never hope to fathom your depths, but only try not to drown in them.

He had no idea of my misery. It would have surprised him to think that I was a human creature with a soul.

All that crap was like living your life with your face pressed up close against a mirror, you couldn't see your own face let alone anything surrounding it.

we're sick of ourselves.

First thing is when your on Death Row long enough you don't ask WHO AM I because you have learnt nobody would be there anyway.

You don't have to understand why anything that has happened to you has happened nor do you even have to understand what it is that has happened. You have only to live with the remains. A

Sunny wintry days. The idyll of (inner) loneliness. What am I going to do with my life?

so perhaps nothing was wrong.

yearning self? Yearning to purify himself at last, after

Alone, alone! Long she would recall the strangeness of the word, an echo aerated by melancholy vowels—alone. AT

He said oh honey. how long have you known? Meaning, how long have you been alone, knowing?

The kind of man, who, every time he steps through a doorway, he's squinting anxious to see if he's welcome. Even when the doorway is his own.

the mirror above the bureau—a flushed blurred face. I had learned to look quickly away from that face for so often I hated what I saw.