Quotes About Introspection

Imagine a woman who could never see herself as she was seen in the eyes of her loved one.

I thought for a minute of the world outside my house, and then I didn't have any more thoughts except the thought that I had to hurry up and sleep.

When I look back on it, all of our important decisions have been figured out when we were drinking.

You know what? I think if you were on fire right now, if you suddenly burst into flame this minute, I wouldn't throw a bucket of water on you.

She's meeting herself coming and going.

I'm just a baker. I don't claim to be anything else. Maybe once, maybe years ago, I was a different kind of human being. I've forgotten, I don't know for sure.

My wife finally took her eyes off the blind man and looked at me. I had the feeling she didn't like what she saw. I shrugged.

But for some reason—who knows why we do what we do?—his drinking picks up.

Nick e Joanne guardavano l'incendio tenendosi stretti, ma mentre lei gli accarezzava distrattamente una spalla, Nick fu assalito dalla sensazione familiare, che ogni tanto lo attanagliava, di non sapere bene a cosa lei stesse pensando.

Por qué habría de querer yo una fotografía de tal desastre? Me acerque un poco más a ella y vi mi cabeza, mi cabeza, allí dentro, tras la ventana de la cocina. Me hizo pensar, al verme a mí mismo de ese modo. Lo digo en serio: es algo que le hace pensar a uno.

Por qué habría de querer yo una fotografía de tal desastre? Me acerqué un poco más a ella y vi mi cabeza, mi cabeza, allí dentro, tras la ventana de la cocina. Me hizo pensar, el verme a mí mismo de ese modo. Lo digo en serio: es algo que le hace pensar a uno.

Oía los latidos de mi corazón. Oía el corazón de los demás.

She bent over me again. Blood began to move around in me, like a prospective tenant looking over a house.

One would think a writer would be happy here -- if a writer is ever happy anywhere.

She was thinking. i could see, even on that short acquaintance, that thinking was always going to be a bother for her.

All men who read escape from something else into what lies behind the printed page; the quality of the dream may be argued, but its release has become a functional necessity.

I have a sense of exile from thought, a nostalgia of the quiet room and balanced mind. I am a writer, and there comes a time when that which I write has to belong to me, has to be written alone and in silence, with no one looking over my shoulder, no one telling me a better way to write it. It doesn't have to be great writing, it doesn't even have to be terribly good. It just has to be mine.

He turned and walked across the floor and out. I watched the door close. I listened to his steps going away down the imitation marble corridor. After a while they got faint, then they got silent. I kept on listening anyway.

After a moment I pushed my chair back and went over to the french windows. I opened the screens and stepped out on to the porch. The night was all around, soft and quiet. The white moonlight was cold and clear, like the justice we dream of but don't find.

All men who read escape from something else into what lies behind the printed page...

I wasn't doing any work that day, just catching up on my foot dangling.

I have a bad habit of starting a book and reading just far enough to make sure I want to read it and look forward to reading and then putting it to one side while I break the ice on a couple more. In that way, when I feel dull and depressed which is too often, I know I have something to read late at night when I do most of it and not that horrid blank feeling of not having anybody to talk to or listen to.

I was in the deep water. It was dark and unclear and the taste of the salt was in my mouth.

There are days like that. Everybody you meet is a dope. You begin to look at yourself in the glass and wonder.