Quotes About Introspection

qué nos hace creer que otro ser humano puede arreglarnos o absolvernos de nuestros actos negativos, nuestros errores y nuestros defectos de carácter?

Todo el mundo piensa en cambiar el mundo, pero nadie piensa en cambiarse a sí mismo. — Leo Tolstoy

Meditating means bringing the mind back to something again and again. Thus, we all meditate, but unless we direct it in some way, we meditate on ourselves and on our own problems, reinforcing our self-clinging.

They tell me, shaking their heads: "You should be kinder. You are somehow furious". I used to be kind. It didn't last long.

But history is that rare woman who doesn't like to look at herself in the mirror. History, when she finds herself in front of one, wipes and wipes its surface at though in this way she might change her face to something better

You're in bad shape. It looks like you're developing a soul.

I stopped and listened. But all I could hear was.. a kind of thudding, and not in me but somewhere near me... my heart.

So here I am in step with everyone now, and yet I'm still separate from everyone. I am still trembling all over from the agitation I endured, like a bridge after an ancient train has rumbled over it. I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?

But a thought swarmed in me; what if he, this yellow-eyed being – in his ridiculous, dirty bundle of trees, in his uncalculated life – is happier than us?

Bir nokta, her ÅŸeyden daha fazla bilinmeyen içerir. Tüm yapmas? gereken k?p?rdamas?, az?c?k yerinden oynamas?d?r; binlerce deÄŸiÅŸik eÄŸriye, yüzlerce kat? biçime dönüÅŸebilir. K?p?rdamak istemiyorum... Korkuyorum. Neye dönüÅŸeceÄŸim?

And it seems to me that everyone is like me—they're all afraid of the slightest movement . . . Everyone's sitting all closed up in his own glass cage waiting for something.

Now, think of a square, a living, beautiful square. And imagine that it must tell you about itself, about its life. You understand, a square would scarcely ever think of telling you that all its four angles are equal: this has become so natural, so ordinary to it that it's simply no longer consciously aware of it. And so with me: I find myself continually in this square's position.

Let my notes, like the most sensitive seismograph, record the curve of even the most insignificant vibrations of my brain: for it is precisely such vibrations that are sometimes the forewarning of...

Ora o conhecimento de si, o reconhecimento da própria individualidade só o têm o olho onde acaba de cair um cisco, o dedo esfolado, o dente dolorido. Quando sãos, o olho, o dedo, o dente não têm existência alguma. Não prova isto claramente que a consciência de si é de facto uma doença?

Estou diante dum espelho. Pela primeira vez na vida (isso, exactamente, pela primeira vez na vida) estou a ver-me clara, distinta e conscientemente; olho para mim, admirado, como se estivesse a ver alguém diferente de mim.

The speed of a tongue should always go some seconds behind the speed of thought, never the other way around.

How awful for you! By the looks of it, you've developed a soul.

Buzele ei erau ale mele, sorbeam, sorbeam, m? dezlipeam, priveam în t?cere ochii deschiÈ™i spre mine - È™i din nou...

I'm so happy- so happy...I'm full- you understand: to the brim. And so- I walk about and hear nothing of what's around mem because I'm always listening within, inside myself...

She was looking down at something; her eyes were lowered, like blinds. I thought suddenly of how you walk along the avenue around 22:00 hours, and among the brightly lit cages there are some dark ones, with the blinds lowered...What was going on there in her head, behind her blinds? ... Then she raised the blinds, looked up...

But how was I going to explain my whole being, this whole disease that I've been jotting down in these pages? So I shut up and went along peacefully. A leaf torn off a tree by a sudden gust of wind falls peacefully downward, but on the way it twists, catches at every twig, offshoot, branch that it knows. That is just how I caught at each silent spherical head, at the transparent ice of the walls, at the light blue needle of the Accumulator Tower as it thrust up into the clouds.

Bir o gözüne, bir ötekine bak?yor, her birinde kendimi görüyorum: gökkuÅŸa?? zindanlar?nda ufac?k, minicik bir mahpus...

Does everyone have a pain that can be wrested from within only along with their heart, and does everyone have to do something before....

Quem sabe como tu és? O homem é como os romances: só na última página é que se sabe o final