Quotes About Introspection

Writing fiction is a solitary occupation but not really a lonely one. The writer's head is mobbed with characters, images and language, making the creative process something like eavesdropping at a party for which you've had the fun of drawing up the guest list. Loneliness usually doesn't set in until the work is finished, and all the partygoers and their imagined universe have disappeared.

Writing fiction is a solitary occupation but not really a lonely one. The writer's head is mobbed with characters, images and language.

it's a good thing I'm used to this; the process of shutting things out as they fall apart, the pretence of cool in a dry, hot season, the taste of redemption in a t.v. screen if God had a voice what would it say?

There is nothing noble about being superior to some other person. The true nobility is in being superior to your previous self.

Do you remember how many breads you have eaten in your life?

The man continued looking at me, refusing to comment. Uncle Mahmoud tried to speak for him: "Who can blame him? He's tired of people.

My silence made her say things she didn't need to say..

And somewhere inside me I felt an awful feeling that something in my life was coming quietly to an end.

I put on the earphones of my portable CD player and listen to Non-Stop Trance Adventure. As I dance, I begin to feel warm and turn off the heat. I wonder why I'm such a difficult person and I look up at the heater and think of my stubbornness. Tears stream down my face, but I keep on dancing.

We know so little about one another. We embrace a shadow and love a dream.

I've borne my isolation with me through the crowd as the snail bears its house. For some people isolation isn't a circumstance in which they find themselves, it's an innate characteristic.

Am fost întotdeauna un singuratic. Mi-am purtat singur?tatea prin mul?imea de oameni, a?a cum î?i poart? melcul casa în spinare. La unii, singur?tatea nu e o stare în care au ajuns printr-o întâmplare a vie?ii, ci o tr?s?tur? fundamental?.

Och det har till sist börjat gå upp för mig som en aning -: det är kanske icke meningen att man skall förstå livet. Allt detta raseri att förklara och förstå, all denna sanningsjakt är kanske en avväg.

Sunt oameni c?rora le lipse?te orice aptitudine pentru fericire ?i î?i dau seama de asta cu o luciditate dureroas? ?i necru??toare. Asemenea oameni nu urm?resc fericirea, ei urm?resc sa dea o oarecare form? ?i pu?in stil nenorocirii lor.

Jag tror icke att en tänkare behöver söka ensamheten. Den ensamhet, han behöver, för han med sig, som snigeln sitt hus. Mitt i människovimlet följer den honom, ty den är ingen yttre omständighet, men en egenskap.

I've always been somewhat isolated. I've borne my isolation with me through the crowd as the snail bears its house. For some people isolation isn't a circumstance in which they find themselves, it's an innate characteristic. And through this act my isolation is likely to increase; no matter how it ends, whether badly or well, for me the "punishment" will be solitary confinement for life.

Look at your world from your own point of view, not from some point in space. Modestly measure with your own yardstick, after your own status, your own predicament, the status and the predicament of man the earthdweller. Then life is large enough and a thing of consequence; and night endless, deep.

Jag har gråa dagar och svarta stunder. Jag är inte lycklig. Dock känner jag ingen som jag ville byta med; mitt hjärta krymper ihop vid föreställningen att jag kunde vara den eller den bland mina bekanta. Nej, jag ville inte vara någon annan. ... Jag tycker inte särdeles mycket om mig själf, hvarken skalet eller innanmätet. Men jag ville inte vara någon annan.

Hur var det möjligt att han, Martin Birck, som ännu inte hade fyllt sexton år och låg i en liten järnsäng i sina föräldrars hem, kunde tänka annorlunda om de högsta och viktigaste tingen än de gamla och erfarna, och att han kunde ha rätt och de orätt?

Men jag, jag såg henne egentligen först nu. Nu först såg jag, att det stod en kvinna i mitt rum, en kvinna med hjärtat överfullt av lust och elände, en ung kvinnoblomma med doft av kärlek omkring sig och med blygselrodnad över att doften var så mäktig och stark. Jag kände att jag bleknade.

It's the kind of day that might make you wonder about the meaning of life, and discover that there is none.

We are more inclined to regret our virtues than our vices; but only the very honest will admit this.

If we are imprisoned in ourselves, books provide us with the means of escape. If we have run too far away from ourselves, books show us the way back.

I think of his riddle. How do people like us take off our armor? One piece at a time.