Quotes About Introspection

Entre mim e a vida há um vidro ténue. Por mais nitidamente que eu veja e compreenda a vida, eu não lhe posso tocar.

I'm sure that all this, I mean other people's attitudes towards me, lies principally in some obscure intrinsic flaw in my own temperament. Perhaps I communicate a coldness that unwittingly obliges others to reflect back my own lack of feeling.

Those who really suffer don't form groups, don't go around in a gang. Those who suffer suffer alone.

To choose ways of not acting was ever the concern and scruple of my life.

Life is the hesitation between an exclamation mark and a question mark. After doubt there is a full stop.

I placidly wait for what I don't know- My future and the future of everything. In the end there will only be silence except Where the waves of the sea bathe nothing.

What does a river know about this and what does a tree know? And I, who am no more than those, what do I know? Every time I look at things and think about what men think about them, I laugh like how a brook sounds cool on a stone.

At other times I wake up from the half sleep I'd fallen into, and hazy images with poetical and unpredictable colours play out their silent show to my inattention.

But do my words ring in anyone else's soul? Does anyone hear them besides me?

Si la liberación no está dentro de mí, no está, para mi, en ninguna parte.

É talvez o último dia da minha vida. Saudei o sol, levantando a mão direita, Mas não o saudei, dizendo-lhe adeus, Fiz sinal de gostar de o ver antes: mais nada.

To conceive of myself from the outside was my ruin – the ruin of my happiness. I saw myself as others see me, and I despised myself – not because I had character traits that made me worthy of contempt, but because I saw myself through the eyes of others, and felt the contempt they feel towards me. I experienced the humiliation of knowing myself.

In these random impressions, and with no desire to be other than random, I indifferently narrate my fact-less autobiography, my lifeless history. These are my Confessions, and if in them I say nothing, it's because I have nothing to say.

Je me suis multiplié pour me sentir, Pour me sentir, j'ai eu besoin de tout ressentir; J'ai débordé, j'ai fini par me répandre

Should you ask me if I'm happy, I'll answer that I'm not.

That's why I read, as a stranger, My being as if it were pages. Not knowing what will come And forgetting what has passed, I note in the margin of my reading What I thought I felt. Rereading, I wonder: "Was that me?" God knows, because he wrote it.

There's no greater proof of an impoverished mind than its inability to be witty except at other people's expense.

The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other's presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define.

Were we as we should be, We wouldn't need any illusions . . .

Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness.

Cansado do universo e sociedade, Da abstracção que não finda o que é fundo Do meu fatal pôr-olhos sobre o mundo, Pobre de amor e rico de ansiedade, Já nada me seduz nem me persuade.

The only intellectual attitude worthy of a superior creature is a feeling of calm, cool compassion for everything that is not himself.

What is there to confess that's worthwhile or useful? What has happened to us has happened to everyone or only to us; if to everyone, then it's no novelty, and if only to us, then it won't be understood.

Beside my pain, all other pains seem false or insignificant. They are the pains of happy people or of people who are alive enough to complain. Mine is the pain of someone imprisoned in life, cut off …