Quotes About Introspection

The tunnels comfort me, I guess, because they'te mine. They know what's inside me and they feel the way I do. Always. Like, you know, when you bomb a test but it's sunny outside? Well, that doesn't happen in the tunnels," she laughs. "They're always dark inside, like me, but inside, I'm like the tunnel—dark, winding, and twisting.

There is a long time in me between knowing and telling." —GRACE PALEY

Still waters run deep, I'd thought. Later, I learned that silence did not necessarily guarantee depth.

People are like that. They can only give you what they have inside. So if this Sydelle character is giving you so much trouble, it's because she's nothing but trouble on the inside. She's just delivering what's in her heart into the universe.

When someone tells you who they are, believe them.

I listened, thinking this was a Drew I'd never seen. One who saw her own privilege. One who was trying to do better.

Have you ever considered that there might be something wrong with your brain? Oh, I think there might be something wrong with everyone else's.

We lose ourselves," she repeated, forming each word with care, "but we find our way back." Wasn't that the story of her life?

She is fifteen years old that summer, a thoughtful, book-struck girl with long-lashed hazel eyes and a long-legged body that still doesn't completely feel like her own.

It's too empty. Too lonely. No one to see, nothing to do. But he hadn't told her no. As the first weeks and months had passed, Christina had come to cherish the solitude and the silence, the slant of late-afternoon sun that warmed the floorboards where her ginger cat slept.

Probably she's dead already. But you couldn't run forever. They had told her that in rehab, too. Eventually you had to stop running, and even the worst failures, the true fuckups and wastes of space, had to try to fix what they had broken. You had to turn and see what you had done.

She lay awake on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, until it was six o'clock and her husband got up, quietly, to put on his running clothes, feigning sleep until she heard the front door open, and close. Then she lay there for another hour, wondering if she could continue to live like this, and, if not, what she was supposed to do next.

So, Nora leaves him in the end, she said, as they walked down the stairs. What? In the play. A Doll's House . That's right. Beatrice went to the sink. She says she can't be anyone's wife or anyone's mother until she knows who she is. She walks out of their house and closes the door behind. It's this iconic moment. At least, that's what our teacher said. That's very interesting.

You confuse me with something that is in you. I will not predict how you want to use me.

Knowing yourself lets you understand others.

At times inactivity is preferable to mindless functioning.

Of what are you thinking now? she asked. I am thinking of myself. That's just what I am doing. Are you also thinking of yourself? No, of yourself—of you, Mogens.

it seemed appropriate that I should develop some kind of illness. This is a good idea when you are at a loose end because everything, up to and including herpes, is better than being bored.

We learned that we are the stories we tell ourselves, and so we have to tell those stories with great care. Because whatever stories we tell ourselves, are true.

Is life a happy sadness? Or a sad happiness?

the liberty of the soul is lost through the windows of the eyes

No man alive has more sound commonsense than I have, if only I were capable of listening to myself. Do

In my youth, the question chiefly important to me was—What sort of man shall I decide to be? At nineteen one asks oneself this question; at thirty-nine we say, "I wish Fate hadn't made me this sort of man.

Would you like to compare what you do around here with what I do?