Quotes About Introspection

Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause a while from learning to be wise. There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,- Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.

Take it from me, there's nothing like a job well done, except the quiet enveloping darkness at the bottom of a bottle of Jim Beam after a job done any way at all.

As actors we give so much of ourselves away so I like to keep my personal life to myself.

The greatest leverage you can create for yourself is the pain that comes from inside, not outside. Knowing that you have failed to live up to your own standards for your life is the ultimate pain.

But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back, and accept quietly, tolerantly, whatever came.

What can we see, read, acquire, but ourselves. Take the book, my friend, and read your eyes out, you will never find there what I find.

I think a lot of self-importance is a product of fear. And fear, living in sort of an un-self-examined fear-based life, tends to lead to narcissism and self-importance.

Since I stopped writing, I read more than ever. Other people's words, not my own—my words are gone.

Maybe it isn't the room that's different. Maybe it's me.

I catch her eyes and she's smiling at me. It's the kind of smile you smile when you're thinking someone over and trying to decide how you feel about them.

For now, why not write things down where no one will see it?

Theodore Finch, in search of the Great Manifesto.

I like to think that the colors and sounds and words have nothing to do with him, that they're all me and my own brilliant, complicated, buzzing, humming, soaring, roaring, diving, godlike brain.

At night when I'm lying awake because my brain won't shut off due to all there is to think about.

but it's only when I'm awake that I think about dying.

I curl up on my bed, propped against my pillows, books spread across the comforter. Since I stopped writing, I read more than ever. Other people's words, not my own—my words are gone. Right now, I'm into the Brontë sisters.

Which of my feelings are real? Which of the mes is me? There is only one me I've ever really liked, and he was good and awake as long as he could be.

Is today a good day to die? This is something I ask myself in the morning when I wake up. In third period when I'm trying to keep my eyes open while Mr. Schroeder drones on and on. At the supper table as I'm passing the green beans. At night when I'm lying awake because my brain won't shut off due to all there is to think about. Is today the day? And if not today—when?

I lean in and look at myself, and it's not my face but someone else's

No estás solo. ? Y antes que pueda decirle ‹‹De hecho lo estoy, lo cual no forma parte del problema. Todo estamos solos, atrapados en el interior del cuerpo y de la mente, y sea cual sea la compañía que podamos tener en esta vida, no es más que pasajera y superficial››

The thing is I don't know what it means to see the world like others do. Maybe I don't recognize myself in a mirror, and maybe I can't exactly tell you what I look like, but I don't think I'd know myself the way I do without prosopagnosia.

Penso bem melhor à noite, quando todo mundo está dormindo. Sem interrupções. Gosto da sensação de estar acordado quando ninguém está.

Quais sentimentos são reais? Quais dos meus eus sou eu?

You can't stop people from dying. You can't stop them from going away. You can't stop yourself from going away either. I know myself well enough to know that no one else can keep you awake or keep you from sleeping. That's all on me too. But man, I like this girl.