Quotes About Introspection

She was becoming herself, casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment.

It sometimes entered Mr. Pontellier's mind to wonder if his wife were not growing a little unbalanced mentally. He could see plainly that she was not herself. That is, he could not see that she was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world.

In short, Mrs. Pontellier was beginning to realize her position in the universe as a human being, and to recognize her relations as an individual to the world within and about her.

the dual life—that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.

When Edna was at last alone, she breathed a big, genuine sigh of relief.

Copil fiind, îÈ™i tr?ise viaÈ›a m?runt? pe de-a întregul în sinea ei. De timpuriu înÈ›elesese instinctiv dualitatea existenÈ›ei: viaÈ›a exterioar?, la care te adaptezi, viaÈ›a interioar?, în care îÈ›i pui întreb?ri.

She let her mind wander back over her stay at Grand Isle; and she tried to discover wherein this summer had been different from any and every other summer of her life. She could only realize that she herself--her present self--was in some way different from the other self. That she was seeing with different eyes and making the acquaintance of new conditions in herself that colored and changed her environment, she did not yet suspect.

Qualche volta al signor Pontellier veniva il dubbio che sua moglie cominciasse ad accusare qualche lieve squilibrio mentale. Vedeva chiaramente che non era più lei. O meglio, non vedeva che Edna stava diventando se stessa, e che ogni giorno si liberava di quella falsa identità che adottiamo come un abito con cui presentarci davanti al pubblico.

Or else she stayed indoors and nursed a mood with which she was becoming too familiar for her own comfort and peace of mind. It was not despair; but it seemed to her as if life were passing by, leaving its promise broken and unfulfilled.

One of these days, she said, I'm going to pull myself together for a while and think—try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know. By all the codes which I am acquainted with, I am a devilishly wicked specimen of the sex. But some way I can't convince myself that I am. I must think about it.

One of these days, she said, I am going to pull myself together for a while and think - try to determine what character of a woman I am; for, candidly, I don't know.

My sudden, unforeseen capitulation had knocked me backward, and I had nothing to hold on to. My internal weather was eerily calm, as if in a tornado's aftermath, birdsong, sunshine, supersaturated colors, wreckage all around, and myself, dazed and limping.

I worked at home, all by myself. Of course, I had Dingo, but a dog just doesn't cut it in the blue hour.

When I'm writing about myself, I write out of a strong urge not to protect myself. When I feel ego or self justification or defensiveness creeping in or a wish to make myself look better than I was, I squelch it, if I can. It takes vigilance. Exposing myself is the only way to go, though. If I'd rather wear veils, I should write fiction.

Don't we all live in our heads? Where else could we possibly exist? Our brains are the universe.

He] had the soul of a poet, and because of this, he liked very much to consider questions that had no answers.

I lay there and thought how life was like a Littmus Lozenge, how the sweet and the sad were all mixed up together and how hard it was to separate them out. It was confusing.

That was the thing about tragedy. It was just sitting there, keeping you company, waiting. And you had absolutely no idea.

Sometimes he reminded me of a turtle hiding inside its shell, in there thinking about things and not ever sticking his head out into the world.

He must, he realized, know somewhere, deep inside him, more things than he had ever dreamed of.

You know, my eyes ain't too good at all. I can't see nothing but the general shape of things, so I got to rely on my heart. Why don't you go on and tell me everything about yourself, so as I can see you with my heart.

It is very dangerous for you to be who you are, said Brother Edik. and so you must pretend to be someone you are not. But how can I pretend to be someone I am not when I don't know who I am?

leave you alone.

Leo Matienne had the soul of a poet, and because of this, he liked very much to consider questions that had no answers.