Quotes About Introspection

Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence.

The pain of dwelling on the wrongs done to us by other people far exceeds the little bit of pleasure we derive from condemning others for their guilt.

It is easy to drown yourself effortlessly into that which is truly profound and do no realise its true worth. And since the restless illusion which brings no pleasure even if you drain it to the dregs lead us by the nose and makes us dance a merry dance to its tune and we take it to be the lost desirable thing

That which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for its entrance?

Man can destroy and plunder, earn and accumulate, invent and discover, but he is great because his soul comprehends all.

THE fish in the water is silent, the animal on the earth is noisy, the bird in the air is singing, But Man has in him the silence of the sea, the noise of the earth and the music of the air.

When a man sleeps he is shut up within the narrow activities of his physical life. He lives, but he knows not the varied relations of his life to his surroundings, - therefore he knows not himself.

Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!

He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being. XXX

The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love. My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted. He

WE, the rustling leaves, have a voice that answers the storms, but who are you so silent?" "I am a mere flower.

Though I have a sense of achievement while I am in your company, I have nothing to cling to when I move away.

I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark? I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter.

For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way; wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in mist. Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road, where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water heaves in the troubled sea. Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.

Sana evime gel demiyorum, uçsuz bucaks?z yaln?zl???ma gel.

Lo que eres no lo ves, y lo que ves es tu sombra

I thought I would write love's words in their own colour; but that lies deep in the heart, and tears are pale. Would you know them, friend, if the words were colourless? I thought I would sing love's words to their own tune, but that sounds only in my heart, and my eyes are silent. Would you know them, friend, if there were no tune?

The literature of the new age seeks not to narrate a sequence of events, but to reveal the secrets of the heart.

You never look at these flowers; therefore they become stale to you. If you would only look into them, then your reading and writing would go to the winds." The Devotee

Jest dobrym cz?owiekiem, wi?c mo?e ?atwiej zniesie kontemplowanie swojego ?ycia, ni? ja bym to znios?a. Bo moja dobro?, je?li istnieje, to tylko w tym, co robi?, a nie we mnie samej.

The human race is challenged more than ever before to demonstrate our mastery, not over nature but of ourselves.

And likewise I was beginning to see my own fears and desires manifested outside myself, was beginning to see in other people's lives a commentary on my own.

I would like to be a D.H. Lawrence character, living in one of his novels. The people I meet don't even seem to have characters. And life seems so rich, when I look at it through his eyes, yet my own life very often appears sterile, like a bad patch of earth, as if nothing will grow there however hard I try.

Podría ser que solo cuando ya es demasiado tarde para escapar nos demos cuenta de que siempre hemos sido libres.