Quotes About Introspection

Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you. Why? is the wrong question. Ask Why not?

I get out of bed and take down the mirror. I put it in the back of my closet, facing the wall. OUR

What am I afraid of? Why can't I even want to get better? When am I me and how do I know that and who would I be if I did what they want? How did I get like this?

I believe that you've created a metaphorical universe in which you can express your darkest fears.

I try not to dwell on this.

I don't know anything. My trees suck.

I could only fix myself

Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you.

Do you know that I saw a picture of myself and genuinely thought that someone had eaten a powdered doughnut over my head?

Life has ill-prepared me for finding any enjoyment in a press of merrymakers.

Oddly enough, the very considerations that had made marriage impossible for him were mirrored in my own being: a rabidly independent nature, an impatience with lesser minds, total unconventionality, and the horror of being saddled with someone who would need cosseting and protection—the

Normally, one is only conscious of the room around one, but when no-one else is present, one's awareness is free to fill all the space.

Interesting, is it not?" I must be better, I thought: his gnomic utterings were irritating me again.

Interesting, is it not?" I must be better, I thought: his gnomic utterings were irritating me again. I replied in my customary way; namely, I ignored him.

I looked down into my glass. It held club soda, but the way I was gazing into it you'd have thought it was filled with something stronger. I used to stare like that into glasses of whiskey, as if they contained coded answers. All they did was dissolve the questions, but there was a time when that was enough.

Forgiving himself came easy to him. His, he'd come to realize, was a forgiving nature.

I went into the bathroom and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sink. All my years looked back at me, and I could feel their weight, pressing down on my shoulders. I ran the shower hot and stood under it for a long time...

For my own part, I'd never live with anyone, male of female. I have trouble enough living with myself.

What does it all

Bitter cups of coffee, my life and my trip measured out like Prufrock's in coffee spoons, clothes sweaty, smelly, bra strap digging into flesh, eyes reddened, gritty as if circled with sand, sour taste in mouth, intermittent heartburn

The realisation of one's own death is the point at which one becomes adult.

I have been thinking about the girl I met last night in the mirror: dark on the marble-ivory white: glossy black hair: deep suspiring eyes in which one's glances sink because they are nervous, curious, turned to sexual curiosity.

I have done so many things in my life, she said to the mirror. Evil things, perhaps. But never unattentively, never wastefully...was I wrong?

I have decided to leave Clea's last letter un-answered. I no longer wish to coerce anyone, to make promises, to think of life in terms of compacts, resolutions, covenants. It will be up to Clea to interpret my silence according to her own needs and desires, to come to me if she has need or not, as the case may be. Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?