Quotes About Introspection

So often loneliness comes from being out of touch with parts of oneself. We go searching for those parts in other people, but there's a difference between feeling separate from others and separate from oneself.

Selves will accumulate when one isn't looking, and they don't always act wisely or well.

Writing, which is my form of celebration and prayer, is also my form of inquiry.

Every day our life was full of thoughts of the horrible present, and even our own death.

A frog croaked a deep throaty I am .

Consider the inner garden, that secret glade filled with day dreams, feelings, and memories. Sometimes they can be made physical, a goal of metaphysical gardening. Otherwise they remain mere reflections in a gazing ball.

You see someone on the street, and essentially what you notice about them is the flaw.

If I stand in front of something, instead of arranging it, I arrange myself.

It's just that I've learned that somebody's appearance doesn't always match what's going on inside him. You can't look at a guy's face and see his demons. - Travis from The Good Father

You have to make peace with the past or you can never move into the future

I remind myself that not everything is a sign, that some things simply are what they appear to be and should not be analyzed, deconstructed, or forced to bear the burden of metaphor, symbol, omen, or portent.

It begins to dawn on her that she is lackadaisical about other people. They are tremendously important to her for a time and then they are not. She begins to see her life in sections, as separate pockets of time and affiliation.

Much of what she found charming and refreshing about him at the outset of their relationship now bugged the hell out of her.

Joanna has an unmanageable lump in her throat and wonders why it's always the happy memories that make her cry.

Sometimes you can know things. Things about yourself. Things from before you can remember.

She could not read a book for fear of the feelings she might find in it.

I looked out into the dead garden. Against the fading light, my shadow hovered in the glass, looking into the dead room. What did she make of us? I wondered. What did she think of our attempts to persuade ourselves that this was life and that we were really living it?

Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover.

A curtain was drawn back in every man's inner theater and their storytelling minds got to work.

I'd expected that I would expand to fit the experience automatically, that I would get my first glimpse of the person I was destined to be.

Again she missed God. She had shared everything with him. From childhood she had gone to him with every question, doubt, delight, and triumph. He had accompanied every advance in her thinking; in action he had been her daily collaborator. But God was gone. This was something she was going to have to work out by herself.

I was in a kind of no-man's-land, a place between places. The mind plays all sorts of tricks, gets up to all kinds of things while we ourselves are slumbering in a white zone that looks for all the world like inattention to the onlooker.

Her quiet and kind listening had made it possible to speak his thoughts aloud, and sometimes it was only when he spoke his thoughts that he knew he had them. It was surprising how a man's mind might remain half in shadow until the right confidant appeared, and Maud had been that confidant.

Me pasé la mañana luchando con la sensación de volutas descarriadas de un mundo intentando filtrarse por las grietas de otro. ¿Conocéis la sensación de empezar un libro nuevo antes de que el recuerdo del último haya tenido tiempo de cerrarse detrás de vosotros? Deja uno el libro anterior con ideas y temas —personajes incluso— atrapados en las fibras de la ropa y cuando abre el libro nuevo siguen ahí.