Quotes About Introspection

a person. Just like her. Just like everyone. Lost and alone

Who knows their own story? Certainly it makes no sense when we are living in the midst of it. It's all just clamor and confusion. It only becomes a story when we tell it and retell it. Our small precious recollections that we speak again and again to ourselves and to others, first creating the narrative of our lives and then keeping the story from dissolving into darkness.

I am damned,' thinks Bunny Munro in a sudden moment of self-awareness reserved for those who are soon to die.

I look at you and you look at me and deep in our hearts babe we know it, that you weren't much of a muse, but then, I weren't much of a poet.

Es vienk?rši atkl?ju, ka š? pasaule ir p?rlieku smaga, lai taj? b?tu labs," saka Bannijs, tad aizver acis un, izp?tis elpu, sastingst.

The more overtly unshakeable someone's beliefs are, the more diminished they seem to become, because they have stopped questioning, and the not-questioning can sometimes be accompanied by an attitude of moral superiority. The belligerent dogmatism of the current cultural moment is a case in point. A bit of humility wouldn't go astray.

I look at you and you look at me and deep in our hearts know it That you weren't much of a muse, but then I weren't much of a poet

I just found this world a hard place to be good in,' says Bunny, then he closes his eyes and, with an expiration of breath, goes still.

You've got to understand your limitations. It's your limitations that make you the wonderful disaster you most probably are.

Oh, fuck it, I'm a monster, I admit it!

It was sort of my own personal apocalypse.

The more I read, the more I learn, the more I discover that I know nothing.

Because with all that I read, all that I learn, I discover how much I do not know. Ideas batter me like hailstones. Questions but no answers. Who am I? Where am I from? Do I have a family?

And the movement in your brain Sends you out into the rain

Do you like what you're doing/would you do it some more/or will you stop once and wonder what you're doing it for?

Alcohol is the river we sit on the banks of, contemplating. Sometimes we watch ourselves float past, sometimes we watch ourselves sink.

inside us, a flower taken whole, a field built inside.

What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to the music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to the music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?

Hard is trying to rebuild yourself, piece by piece, with no instruction book, and no clue as to where all the important bits are supposed to go.

Over the last couple of years, the photos of me when I was a kid... well, they've started to give me a little pang or something - not unhappiness, exactly, but some kind of quiet, deep regret... I keep wanting to apologize to the little guy: "I'm sorry, I've let you down. I was the person who was supposed to look after you, but I blew it: I made wrong decisions at bad times, and I turned you into me.

I've had a bad week." What's happened?" Nothing's happened. I've had a bad week in my head, is all.

I lost the plot for a while then. And I lost the subplot, the script, the soundtrack, the intermission, my popcorn, the credits, and the exit sign.

The rigours of experience were beating relentlessly against his muse and Brian Wilson could no longer snugly dream on like before.

Something just opened up inside me,' he'd say softly. 'I don't know what it is but I can feel it every day now. I don't take anything for granted anymore.