Quotes About Introspection

Thanks, but sometimes I think my sins are the only thing holding me together

ONCE UPON A time I was a regular jackass living a regular jackass life.

Finally, he says, "Who are you?" I say, "No one important. Who are you?" He has to think about it for a few seconds. Sort through a lot of mental detritus before he comes up with something. No, this guy hasn't chatted in a long time. "Billy?" he says. "Billy Boop.

I don't seem to be alone anymore." "Very well," says Vehuel. "We'd like—" "Shh," he says, holding up a hand. "I'm trying to count." "Of course," Vehuel says in a tone that makes it pretty obvious she's not used to getting shushed.

I consider going to Bamboo House and drinking myself horizontal, but that's what I always do, and where has it gotten me? Pretty much where I am now—standing in a hallway talking to myself about things and people I don't understand anymore.

As sweet as it feels, I can't lie here forever curled up in a big ball of fuck-the-world.

As sweet as it feels, I can't lie here forever curled up in a big ball of fuck-the-world.

I'm trying very hard not to think about anything I'm doing. Of all the iffy things I've ever done in my life, I've never had to ditch a body before. While it's giving me a migraine right now, I think the fact that I'm not an expert on corpse disposal says a lot of good things about me and my life choices.

The storied self knows that self is not enough.

We judge the world quite harshly, but we rarely judge noise. We can hide in the noise.

Being compassionate is actually very brave because it involves taking an honest look at your own self. In order to feel compassion towards yourself, you must be willing to face your pain instead of burying your head in the sand. That's the essence of bravery.

Investigate my life, O God . . . See for yourself whether I've done anything wrong.

A wholesome oblivion of one's neighbours is the beginning of wisdom.

I'll speak for me, though it's hard for me to speak for myself because I don't know who I am

no one really knows anyone. That's the thing about relationships - people are always saying, "I want to know you, I want to know who you are." But it is so hard for anyone to even know themselves. Who I am is always changing, so how can anyone else share in that?

See. The whole concept of love is much more complex. Love's like God or something: It's everywhere...I see it, I feel it, but I don't know if another person is going to hand it to me.

You know, that's what I hate: when you start talking like this, like you just pull in these things from the shit you read, and you haven't thought it out for yourself, no bearing on the world around us, and totally unoriginal.

As you get older, you want less from the world; you just want to experience it. Any barriers to feeling emotions get dismantled. And ordinary things become beautifully poetic.

Strange that only a little problem of your own will take your mind far from a tragedy belonging to others.

There is a fool you feel when somebody is saying they are sorry for doing something to you. It is worse than if you had done something yourself. So you are having the worst of it twice, start and finish.

Even those we know best are strangers, whom we understand, if we ever do, intermittently.

it is only human nature to wonder and second guess about choices made and paths not taken.

Philosophers get attention only when they appear to be doing something sinister--corrupting the youth, undermining the foundations of civilization, sneering at all we hold dear. The rest of the time everybody assumes that they are hard at work somewhere down in the sub-basement, keeping those foundations in good repair. Nobody much cares what brand of intellectual duct tape is being used.

Then this travesty of manhood reascended to his feet, and said, whether speaking to me or to himself I could not tell