Quotes About Introspection

I am learning so many new things every day that when each Saturday night comes I look back on the Sallie of last Saturday night, amazed at her ignorance.

Believe me," St. Vincent de Paul said to his priests, "we will never be any use in doing God's work until we become thoroughly convinced that, of ourselves, we are better fitted to ruin everything than to make a success of it.

Cette fois-ci j'ai choisi un axe, sans m'interdire pour autant d'emprunter quelques chemins de traverse, et cet axe je l'ai défini dès les premières lignes comme étant ma relation au langage (il se peut que ce livre ne soit qu'une version personnelle des Mots de Sartre...).

Peut-être, le temps passant, la question première : « D'où ça vient les enfants ? » laisse-t-elle la place à celle-ci : « D'où ça nous vient, nos pensées ? »

me voici dans l'île – pour ressentir le besoin d'une écriture plus vagabonde qui, à l'extrême, n'a d'autre objet qu'elle-même : ce qu'on nomme littérature.

n'ai obéi qu'à une exigence, d'ailleurs non formulée, celle de donner à entendre ma voix, et cela, si je puis dire, à mes propres oreilles : ma voix, comme si je craignais, après tant d'années consacrées à écouter les voix des autres, de perdre la mienne

Anla??lmaz bir homurtu olarak gördü?ü bu dünyada, sessiz ve akl? kar???k biri gibi görünmek ho?una gidiyordu.

j'étais seul au milieu de cette multitude, pris au piège comme une araignée qui se serait enfermée dans sa propre toile.

Pris dans le tourbillon narcissique de leurs succès respectifs, ils n'avaient plus guère d'énergie pour se tourner l'un vers l'autre.

Are you there, Jean-Do?' she asks anxiously over the air. And I have to admit that at times I do not know any more.

And then one afternoon as I confided my woes to her likeness, an unknown face interposed itself between us. Reflected in the glass I saw the head of a man who seemed to have emerged from a vat of formaldehyde. His mouth was twisted, his nose damaged, his hair tousled, his gaze full of fear. One eye was sewn shut, the other goggled like the doomed eye of Cain. For a moment I stared at that dilated pupil, before I realized it was only mine.

Sunday. I contemplate my books, piled up on the windowsill to constitute a small library: a rather useless one, for today no one will come to read them for me. Seneca, Zola, Chateaubriand, and Valery Larbaud are right there, three feet away, just out of reach. A very black fly settles on my nose. I waggle my head to unseat him. He digs in. Olympic wrestling is child's play compared to this. Sunday.

We are both locked-in cases, each in his own way: myself in my carcass, my father in his fourth-floor apartment.

This skin cripples me. It always has. — Kai Cheng Thom to -----, 2013 (age 22)

If you continually write and read yourself as a fiction, you can change what's crushing you.

The Buddhists say there are 149 ways to God. I'm not looking for God, only for myself, and that is far more complicated. God has had a great deal written about Him; nothing has been written about me. God is bigger, like my mother, easier to find, even in the dark. I could be anywhere, and since I can't describe myself I can't ask for help.

As your lover describes you, so you are.

The Buddhists say there are 149 ways to God. I'm not looking for God, only for myself, and that is far more complicated. God has had a great deal written about Him; nothing has been written about me. God is bigger, like my mother, easier to find, even in the dark. I could be anywhere, and since I can't describe myself I can't ask for help.

When I look at my life I realise that the mistakes I have made, the things I really regret, were not errors of judgement but failures of feeling.

If you are silent, if I never learn one fraction more of your soul's equation/I know you.

They kept nothing of import from each other, but Lydia liked having a sacred cupboard within herself, to which only she was allowed access.

Trauma waits for stillness.

you. Because people are complex

she feels as tatty as a scrap of lace, defined not so much by what she's made of, but more by the shapes of what's missing.