Quotes About Introspection

Could Pesto be his own observer? Interesting question. He used to like to raise his leg and study his asshole. It didn't seem like this observation caused him to split into multiple cats with multiple assholes.

She knew so much about what was happening in the world, even as she grew more isolated from it.

When you read these words on a page, what happens to them, when they become you?

Ruth had always been fascinated by the meandering currents of his mind

Emma Goldman wrote an autobiography called Living My Life that Jiko is always trying to get me to read, but I haven't gotten around to it yet because I'm too busy living my life or trying to figure out how not to.

I knew I was dead, even if my parents didn't notice.

In reality, every reader, while he is reading, is the reader of his own self. The writer's work is merely a kind of optical instrument, which he offers to the reader to permit him to discern what, without the book, he would perhaps never have seen in himself. The reader's recognition in his own self of what the book says is the proof of its truth. —Marcel Proust, Le temps retrouvé

Every person is trapped in their own particular bubble of delusion, and it's every person's task in life to break free. Books can help. We can make the past into the present, take you back in time and help you remember. We can show you things, shift your realities and widen your world, but the work of waking up is up to you.

I guess this is it. This is what now feels like.

It's funny that the question Aikon asked herself - What is real? - is the same one as mine. It's like she knew somehow, or maybe everyone just has the same question?

I'm just an actor, and no more interesting than you are. She scribbled her name. Probably not as interesting, actually You should pay more attention to yourself and less to people like me. You'll be better off that way.

When you get old," she had said on the occasion of her brother Tom's dying, "you don't have much emotion. It goes. At about seventy, I'd say. All those things and people you were passionate about, angry or adoring or longing, they all go, and a kind of dull calm takes over. I

most thumbed

having nothing better to do, meandered off to a coffee shop and sat facing each other for a couple of hours, neither of them talking much but each coming to the general conclusion that the other was a person rather like himself...

I wasn't sure I knew any longer what was right and what was wrong. It was a very precarious feeling, but it hinted at a sense of liberation like I'd never experienced. Liberation from the countless little hassles of everyday life. It was as if the border between 'me' and 'not me' was dissolving, leaving me in a sort of slush. I was going somewhere I'd never been before.

that you don't suffer because of someone else. There's never anyone but

They don't realize that they've changed; they think it's the world that changed.

That was with me for years—feeling I wasn't myself. And I do think I wasn't my real self then. Of course, I'm not sure there is such a thing as a real self. You could ransack your innards looking for the real you and never find it—slice yourself open and all you'll find is blood and muscle and bone. . . .

To be able to choose your own pain - it's a little scary, she thought, but it's wonderful, too.

Self-esteem isn't an emotion. Self-esteem is just self-knowledge, a solid understanding of your limitations. It's living according to your own standards.

My play over, watching the sun go down, I'd frown and blow on the wound, and then I felt a sense of peace, as if I and the gray evening landscape were confiding in each other. Just the opposite from heroin or melting together in a woman's juices, the pain made me stand out from my surroundings, the pain made me feel as if I were shining. And I thought this shining self could get along well with the lovely orange light of the setting sun.

I never liked to just absorb something somebody else created. I'm too self-conscious, and too critical, I guess, and it always felt like I was wasting time. But after you went away... well, it started to feel like time was wasting me. Every tick of the second hand was like a needle in my skin. Tick, tick, tick...

Over the previous four days I had prepared my answers to all the questions I thought she might ask. Such is the wisdom—or the sad compulsion—of someone who was semi-autistic as a child.

Poder elegir tu propio dolor; da un poco de miedo, pensó, pero también es maravilloso.