Quotes About Introspection

"Sister," quoth Flesh, "what liv'st thou on Nothing but Meditation?

His heart was like a sensitive plant, that opens for a moment in the sunshine, but curls up and shrinks into itself at the slightest touch of the finger, or the lightest breath of wind.

There is such a thing as looking through a person's eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another's soul in one hour than it might take you a lifetime to discover, if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to understand it.

I am a restrained person. Otherwise my heart would race past my tongue to pour out everything. Instead I mumble, I gnaw myself. I lose hope. And my mind is burning.

Now I think it is true to say of the road, and also of God, that it does not move. At the same time, it is everywhere. It has a language, but not one I know. It has a story, but I am in it. So are you. And to realize this is a moment of some sadness. When we are denied a story, a light goes off. I am asking you to study the dark.

Three days (so I hear) she is without food, keeps her body pure of bread, longs to run herself aground in a sad secret death. Is it a god inside you, girl?

Those nights lying alone are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn. It is who I am.

I lack myself.

Who knows what will happen if I'm alone with my grief.

My religion makes no sense and does not help me therefore I pursue it.

A thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.

This was when Geryon liked to plan his autobiography; in that blurred state, between awake and asleep. When too many intake values are open in the soul, like the terrestrial crust of the earth.

Yellow? said Geryon. And he was thinking Yellow! Yellow! Even in dreams he doesn't know me at all! Yellow!

The presence of want awakens in him nostalgia for wholeness. His thoughts turn toward questions

in between the neighbour who recalls her coming in from a walk on the moors with her face "lit up by a divine light" and the sister who tells us Emily never made a friend in her life, is a space where the little raw soul slips through.

trapped in his own bad apple. Each morning a shock to return to the cut soul.

Whenever I visit my mother I feel I am turning into Emily Brontë, my lonely life around me like a moor, my ungainly body stumping over the mud flats with a look of transformation that dies when I come into the kitchen door. What meat is it, Emily, we need?

Geryon closed his eyes and listened to engines vibrating deep in the moon-splashed canals of his brain.

Up against another human being one's own procedures take on definition.

Geryon watched the top of Herakles' head and felt his limits returning. Nothing to say. Nothing.

Up against another human being one's own procedures take on definition.

Emily is in the parlour brushing the carpet," records Charlotte in 1828. Unsociable even at home

A stranger is someone who sits very still at the kitchen table, looks down at his knuckles, thinks some day we will laugh about this, doesn't believe it.

They saw her moving quietly back there like a metaphysician in a novel