Quotes About Introspection

Not in the clamour of the crowded street, Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.

In youth all doors open outward; in old age all open inward.

The holiest of all holidays are those Kept by ourselves in silence and apart.

Hombres de mucha importancia te pretenden. + Ya te digo que ninguno es para mí. - Pues, ¿has de vivir ansí? + ¿Tan mal estaré conmigo?

When I face myself, I go, "You have a fear of really being on your own. So you know what? That's what we're gonna do right now."

Ever since I got married I've been thinking night and day about whose fault it was, and every time I think about it, out comes a new fault to eat up the old one; but always there's a fault left.

It is so easy to do a dirty thing with self-satisfaction when it consists in abstaining from action.

We prefer to avoid men, and to shun the world, in order that we may seek in retirement, the only peace that is possessing, the only happiness which is left us to enjoy.

Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy

Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

The power of thought is the magic of the mind.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge How little we know that which we are! How less we may be!

She is so good a person, that - that - in short, I wish I was a better.

Sólo salgo para renovar la necesidad de estar solo.

While common men grow ignorantly old, The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, Dissecting the whole inside of a question, And with it all the process of digestion.

Composing a letter is a way to combine solitude with good company.

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

The more I see of men, the less I like of them; if I could but say so of women too, all would be well.

Such writing is a sort of mental masturbation - [Keats] is always frigging his imagination. - I don't mean that he is indecent but viciously soliciting his own ideas into a state which is neither poetry nor any thing else but a Bedlam of vision produced by raw pork and opium.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

So she prayed. She prayed she'd been right when she told herself something good and decent lived inside this man. Mostly, though, she prayed she hadn't made the worst mistake of her life when she allowed herself to fall in love with him.

Taking a final pleasure in what the wind can neither proclaim nor destroy, I am a student of nightfall, I claim no other profession.

If you cannot bear the silence and the darkness, do not go there; if you dislike black night and yawning chasms, never make them your profession.