Quotes About Introspection

K?pÄ"c es esmu vecs mu??is? · T?pÄ"c, ka jÅ«s nevienu nemÄ«lat. JÅ«s nekad ne?aujaties plÅ«dumam. JÅ«su nekad nav Å¡eit. Nekad mÅ«su vidÅ«. Nekad mÅ«su sarun?s un mÅ«su mu???b?s, nekad mÅ«su dzÄ«ru viduvÄ"jÄ«b?. T?pÄ"c ka jÅ«s neesat maigs, t?pÄ"c ka jÅ«s vienmÄ"r klusÄ"jat, un jÅ«su klusÄ"Å¡ana lÄ«dzin?s nicin?jumam…

Our certainties never really hold water. One day you feel like dying and the next you realize all you had to do was go down a few stairs to find the light switch so you could see things a bit more clearly.

Mana sirds ir k? liela, tukša soma, t?da pamat?ga soma, kur nek?da nek?rt?ba, nav iesp?jama, jo tur nek? nav iekš?.

Ne reizi neesmu sev vaic?jis, vai esmu m?l?jis vi?u vienm?r vai k?das tieši bija manas j?tas pret vi?u. Tas neko neb?tu l?dz?jis. Tom?r man tik?s vi?u sastapt no jauna k?d? vienatnes br?d?. Atz?stos, jo t? ir taisn?ba.

Tu crois que c'est comme tes mines de crayon ? Tu crois que ça s'use quand on s'en sert ? - De quoi ? -Les sentiments.

After all, nobody else ever made a sketch of the dishes in your sink. That you probably can't think of a similar image is also helpful.

So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty—describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects you remember.

continue, stared down at her feet. Her companion's

One needs occasionally to stand aside from the hum and rush of human interests and passions to hear the voices of God.

Can you think yourself to death?

During the sleepless hours of the night a thought came to me that seemed important. I got up in the dark and wrote it down. In the morning I read: 'I went looking for loneliness. But it found me.

Writing down your thoughts is both necessary and harmful. It leads to eccentricity, narcissism, preserves what should be let go. On the other hand, these notes intensify the inner life, which, left unexpressed, slips through your fingers. If only I could find a better kind of journal, humbler, one that would preserve the same thoughts, the same flesh of life, which is worth saving. from "In That Great River: A Notebook," Poetry . Originally Published: June 1, 2010

Yes, even when I don't believe— there is a place in me inaccessible to unbelief, a patch of wild grace, a stubborn preserve, impenetrable, pain untouched by the sleeping body, music that builds its nest in silence. — Anna Kamienska, "Lack of Faith," Astonishments: Selected Poems of Anna Kamienska . Paraclete Press (MA); First Edition edition July 1, 2007) Originally published 2007.

I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

I've learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what's unsaid, what's underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.

Everything was so quiet, as if the silence was listening.

My ideas were confused. In a peculiar way, the unreality of the outer world appeared to be an extension of my own disturbed state of mind.

What can I do now? What am I to become? How can I live in this world I'm condemned to but can't endure? They couldn't stand it either, so they made a world of their own. Well, they have each other's company, and they are heroes, whereas I'm quite alone, and have none of the qualities essential to heroism - the spirit, the toughness, the dedication. I'm back where I was as a child, solitary, helpless, unwanted, frightened.

The sight of the wall of water outside reassured me, giving me the idea that it made very little difference whether I stayed with her, or set out alone on my journey that had neither visible starting point nor destination. It didn't matter: since, however closely I became involved with another existence, my own world would always remain secret, inaccessible and shut-off; nobody would ever see me, except as a dim, changeable, wavering shadow, through its impenetrable, semi-opaque walls.

Reality had always been something of an unknown quantity to me. At times this could be disturbing.

The years passed like the steps of a staircase leading lower and lower. I did not walk any more in the sun or hear the songs of larks like crystal fountains playing against the sky. No hand enfolded mine in the warm clasp of love. My thoughts were again solitary, disintegrate, disharmonious – the music gone. I lived alone in a few pleasant rooms, feeling my life run out aimlessly with the tedious hours: the life of an old maid ran out of my fingertips.

The whole room is as black as pitch. In fact, I'm not at all sure that it is a room. Something suggests to me now that I'm on board ship; I might be floating adrift on some tranquil sea. And yet there's no sound, no motion, nothing to indicate either sea or land. Like a ghost train my life streams through my head, and I don't know which point of the compass I'm facing. How dark it is. The moon must have stolen away secretly.

When everything's said and done, unfortunately, we find ourselves in the position of children whose parents have gone to the theatre, leaving them alone in the dark house. Yes, we are forced, if we are honest, to make the saddest of all admissions when it comes to the last resort: Alas, we do not understand these things.