Quotes About Insight

In 20,000 walks you're bound to learn a little.

There can be a wonderful substratum of thinking going on beneath the banal tonnage of human behavior. Perhaps

While it is a truism that man has not learned much more than the sexual act, and that fire burns when you stick your hand into it, it behooves the scholar to immerse himself in the analyses of the problem, rather than the problem itself. One

With all its eyes the creature world beholds the open, while our eyes are turned in ward," said

Creativity. Taking something enormously strange and somehow making it strangely familiar.

The writer is just answering a series of unuttered questions.

Knowledge is speaking, Wisdom is listening

Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens.

Forget that blind ambition, and learn to trust your intuition.

One thing in my defense, not that it matters: I know something Carter never knew, or Helene, or maybe you. I know what nothing means, and keep on playing.

We write to discover what we think.

Details are our business as writers. Your heart leaps when you see a detail that can go somewhere

I went because I was interested in the alchemy of issues.

the revelation that the dream was teaching the dreamers how to live.

Make a place available to the eyes, and in certain ways it is no longer available to the imagination.

Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.

I write to know what I think.

I don't know what I think until I write about it.

So the point of my keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking. That would be a different impulse entirely, an instinct for reality which I sometimes envy but do not possess.

We imagined we knew everything the other thought, even when we did not necessarily want to know it, but in fact, I have come to see,we knew not the smallest fraction of what there was to know.

This is a case in which I need more than words to find the meaning.

I can no longer tell you whether Milton put the sun or the earth at the center of his universe in Paradise Lost, the central question of at least one century and a topic about which I wrote ten thousand words that summer, but I can still recall the exact rancidity of the butter in the City of San Francisco's dining car, and the way the tinted windows on the Greyhound bus cast the oil refineries around Carquinez Strait into a grayed and obscurely sinister light.

There was a way to know if you had made headway. You knew you had made headway, when a doctor to whom you had made one or another suggestions, presented, a day later, the plan as his own.

I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means…. What is going on in these pictures in my mind?