Quotes About Introspection

but she's as blunt as a splitting maul." She thinks about that, walking again.

It is one of Hawthorne's bosom serpents, rarely noticed because in the bosom it inhabits it can so easily camouflage itself among a crowd of the warmest and most generous sentiments.

within yourself, you became a grave for her as you were a grave for Chet, and you carried your dead unquietly within you. —

We hate ourselves...We hate our own failures and our own weaknesses. We hate ourselves because we cannot help comparing what we are with what we might be. Our discontent is the voice of God in us, prodding us to live up to ourselves. Until we recognize and admit this we will always turn savagely outward, destroying other things because ourselves are at fault.

This is not a journal", he wrote, "it is not notes for a novel, not a line-a-day record of the trivia my mind dredges up. Call it an attempt to understand." (Bruce) -Wallace Stegner (The Big Rock Candy Mountain, Pg. 436)

The humble are they that move about the world with the lure of the real in their hearts.

Just as my fingers on these keysMake music, so the self-same soundsOn my spirit make a music, too.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

One must have a mind of winter.

Thought tends to collect in pools.

He heard her low accord, Half prayer and half ditty, And He felt a subtle quiver, That was not heavenly love, Or pity. This is not writ In any book.

Where was it one first heard of the truth? The the.

Poets are never lonely even when they pretend to be.

The salt hung on his spirit like a frost, The dead brine melted in him like a dew Of winter, until nothing of himself Remained, except some starker, barer self In a starker, barer world, in which the sun Was not the sun because it never shone With bland complaisance...

Consider the odd morphology of regret.

Who, then, are they, seated here? Is the table a mirror in which they sit and look? Are they men eating reflections of themselves?

Not less because in purple I descended The western day, through what you called The loneliest air, not less was I myself

The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.

The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.

The reader became the book; and summer night Was like the conscious being of the book.

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself; And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

It was the way of Emma Lou always to create her worlds within her own mind without taking under consideration the fact that other people and other elements, not contained within herself, would also have to aid in their molding.

Life is like a mirror, what you see out there, you must first see what is inside you.