Quotes About Introspection

I may be heaven-sent, but I'm not perfect.

I may be heaven-sent, bit I'm not perfect

I met Brian soon after he had signed the Beatles. He was charming, polite, well spoken and I liked him. He accepted that I was John's girlfriend, but he told John that it would be better if all girlfriends kept a low profile. I didn't mind because I had no interest in the limelight. As long as I could be with John, I was content to stay in the shadows.

I've always been wary of marriage.

I just want my relationship to be more for myself rather than a public statement.

A genuine essay has no educational, polemical, or sociopolitical use; it is the movement of the free mind at play. Though it is written in prose, it is closer in kind to poetry than to any other form. Like a poem, a genuine essay is made out of lenguage and character and mood and temperament and pluck and chance.

No, no, sometimes a person feels to be alone." "If you're alone too much," Persky said, "you think too much." "Without a life," Rosa answered, "a person lives where they can. If all they got is thoughts, that's where they live." "You ain't got a life?" "Thieves took it.

kind but distant, she now recognized him as

The biggest change we can make and the most exhilarating is to change ourselves

She couldn't get any farther away inside from her skin. She couldn't get away.

I do not know how to hold all the beauty and sorrow of my life.

Better to write for yourself and have no public; than to write for the public and have no self.

Neither harsh reviews, the contempt of equals nor the indifference of superiors can affect those who have once tapped the great heart of suffering humanity and found out what a goldmine it is.

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self." - "Meglio scrivere per se stessi e non avere un pubblico piuttosto che scrivere per gli altri e non essere se stessi".

When we have ceased to love the stench of the human animal, either in others or in ourselves, then are we condemned to misery, and clear thinking can begin.

If you asked me for my New Year Resolution, it would be to find out who I am.

Soon I find myself squatting on the floor. I am still striking my face; not with my fists this time, but with wide-open hands. I am slapping myself. The sounds I make when my palms meet my cheeks are like an unrelenting round of applause. I am clapping myself. Or clapping for myself. I start to giggle. All the voices are receding now. I am no longer filled with rage or disappointment. I clap and clap and simply cannot stop.

What does it mean to write a story of your own life in your head? We all do that whether we are writers or not. We all have a story about who we are: what gender we are, what experiences we have . . . all sorts of stories and narratives we allow ourselves to believe in and create as we go along.

When, after a long life, it falls out That he takes on a form he had sought And every word carved in stone Grows its hoarfrost, what then? Torches Of Dionysian choruses in the dark mountains From when he comes. And half of the sky With its snaky clouds. A mirror before him. In the mirror the already severed, perishing Thing.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will. What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry, as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly, under unbearable duress and only with the hope that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

Since that moment when in a house with low eaves A doctor from the town cut the navel-string And pears dotted with white mildew Reposed in their nests of luxurious weeds I have been in the hands of humans.

And who can consent at the mirror to a mere face of man?

Kad nusinuodytum žiurknuodžiais, reikia prarasti bet koki? vilt? ir drauge visiškai pasiduoti savo mintims, tada jos užstoja vis? pasaul? ir žmogus ni?nieko neberegi, išskyrus savo likim?.

If I had to tell what the world is for me I would take a hamster or a hedgehog or a mole and place him in a theatre seat one evening and, bringing my ear close to his humid snout, would listen to what he says about the spotlights, sounds of the music, and movements of the dance.