Quotes About Introspection

It passed through his mind that if he missed this chance of talking to Katharine, he would have to face an enraged ghost, when he was alone in his room again, demanding an explanation of his cowardly indecision. It was better, on the whole, to risk present discomfiture than to waste an evening bandying excuses and constructing impossible scenes with this uncompromising section of himself.

kardjának élét az élet felé fordítva...

I reach my object and say, Wander no more. All else is trial and make-believe.

S úgy érezte, megint kettesben, szemtÅ'l szembe kerültek, Å' maga s ellenfele, az élet.

Sie fühlte sich sehr jung; gleichzeitig unaussprechlich betagt. Sie schnitt wie ein Messer durch alles; war gleichzeitig außerhalb und sah zu. Sie hatte eine nicht endende Empfindung, während sie die Droschken beobachtete, draußen zu sein, draußen, weit draußen auf See, und allein; sie hatte immer das Gefühl, es sei sehr, sehr gefährlich, auch nur einen Tag zu leben.

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?

A solidão faz homens de talento ou idiotas. [...] A solidão domina os ânimos simplices, complica-os, enche-os de horror sagrado.

You have to grow from the inside out. None can teach you, none can make you spiritual. There is no other teacher but your own soul.

The greatest religion is to be true to your own nature. Have faith in yourselves.

We are what our thoughts have made us; so take care about what you think. Words are secondary. Thoughts live; they travel far.

You're growing old together," she said to me. "You and what frightens you.

Man is free only when he is doing what the deepest self likes, and knowing what the deepest self likes, ah! that takes some diving.

Penetrating the familiar is by no means a given. On the contrary, it is hard work.

Solitude is the playfield of Satan.

I cannot conceive how anybody in his right mind should go to a psychoanalyst.

Solitude was corrupting me. I needed company and care.

We think not in words but in shadows of words.

We who burrow in filth every day may be forgiven perhaps the one sin that ends all sins.

I knew—but I did know that I had crossed 700  The border. Everything I loved was lost But no aorta could report regret. A sun of rubber was convulsed and set; And blood-black nothingness began to spin A system of cells interlinked within Cells interlinked within cells interlinked Within one stem. And dreadfully distinct Against the dark, a tall white fountain played. I

Solitude was corrupting me.

The act of vividly recalling a patch of the past is something that I seem to have been performing with the utmost zest all my life, and I have reason to believe that this almost pathological keenness of the retrospective faculty is a hereditary trait.

As far back as I can remember myself—and I remember myself with lawless lucidity, I have been my own accomplice, who knows too much, and therefore is dangerous.

There is nothing in the world that I loathe more than group activity, that communal bath where the hairy and slippery mix in a multiplication of mediocrity.

Although I am capable, through long dabbling in blue magic, of imitating any prose in the world (but singularly enough not verse—I am a miserable rhymester), I do not consider myself a true artist, save in one matter: I can do what only a true artist can do—pounce upon the forgotten butterfly of revelation, wean myself abruptly from the habit of things, see the web of the world, and the warp and the weft of that web.