Quotes About Perception

ÅŸu son haftalar içinde bir deÄŸiÅŸiklik ortaya ç?kt?. ama nerede? hiçbir ÅŸeye baÄŸlan?lmayan soyut bir deÄŸiÅŸme bu. deÄŸiÅŸen ben miyim? ben deÄŸilsem ÅŸu oda, ÅŸu kent, ÅŸu doÄŸa; seçmek gerek. deÄŸiÅŸen benim san?yorum.

cette liberté, je l'ai cherchée bien loin ; elle était si proche que je ne pouvais la voir, que je ne peux pas la toucher, elle n'était que moi.

It is the reflection of my face. Often in these lost days I study it. I can understand nothing of this face. The faces of others have some sense, some direction. Not Mine.

she has suddenly emptied herself of me, and all other consciousness in the world has also emptied itself of me. It seems funny. Yet I know that I exist, that I am here. Now

And just what is Antoine Roquentin? An abstraction. A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness. Antoine Roquentin . . . and suddenly the "I" pales, pales, and fades out. Lucid

All children are mirrors of death

Bugünkü aÅŸamada, mevcut düÅŸünme yöntemlerimizle, bir düÅŸüncenin bir nesne kar??s?ndaki aç?l?m? yaln?zl??? öngörmektedir.

Natten har kommit in, sötaktig, tvekande. Man ser den inte, men den finns där, den beslöjar lamporna; man andas in någonting tjockt i luften: det är den. (s. 55)

Jag kastade en ängslig blick runt omkring mig: nuet, ingenting annat än nuet. [...] Nuets verkliga natur rörde sig: det var det som existerade och allt som inte var nuet existerade inte. Det förflutna existerade inte. (s.172)

C?rÈ›ile îns? au fost p?s?rile È™i cuiburile mele, animalele mele domestice, staulul È™i satul meu; biblioteca era lumea prins? într-o oglind?. Ca È™i ea era infinit de stufoas?, de variat?, de imprevizibil?.

we are not on the side of history made. We were, as I have said, situated in such a way that every lived minute seemed to us like something irreducible.

Günler boyu insan kendi kendine sorabilirdi, ben ak?ll? m?y?m, kendimi bir ÅŸey mi san?yorum, diye; asla bir karara var?lamazd?. Bunun yan?nda bir sabah size tak?lan etiketler vard? ve ömür boyu onlar? ta??mak gerekiyordu ...

Thus I eat the pink as I see the sugary.

I stop suddenly: there is a flaw, I have seen a word pierce through the web of sensations. I suppose that this word will soon take the place of several images I love.

I see the insipid flesh blossoming and palpitating with abandon. ? Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea . (New Directions Publishing Corporation January 1, 1975) Originally published 1938.

Nothing looked real; I felt surrounded by cardboard scenery which could suddenly be removed. The world was waiting, holding its breath, making itself small -

For instance, there is something new about my hands, a certain way of picking up my pipe or fork. Or else it's the fork which now has a certain way of having itself picked up, I don't know. A little while ago, just as I was coming into my room, I stopped short because I felt in my hand a cold object which held my attention through a sort of personality. I opened my hand, looked: I was simply holding the door-knob.

Sa do të doja të përhumbesha, të harrohesha, të flija. Por, nuk mundem, më merret fryma: ekzistenca më depërton nga të gjitha anët, nga sytë nga hunda, nga goja… Dhe në një çast, në një çast të vetëm, perdja griset, kuptova, pashë.

Esto es lo que engaña a la gente; el hombre es siempre un narrador de historias; vive rodeado de sus historias y de las ajenas, ve a través de ellas todo lo que le sucede, y trata de vivir su vida como si la contara. Pero hay que escoger: o vivir o contar.

Nous, nous battions des paupières. Un clin d'Å"il, ça s'appelait. Un petit éclair noir, un rideau qui tombe et qui se relève : la coupure est faite. L'Å"il s'humecte, le monde s'anéantit. Vous ne pouvez pas savoir combien c'était rafraîchissant. Quatre mille repos dans une heure. Quatre mille petites évasions.

Tú serás lo que quieras: agua pura, agua sucia. Te reconocerás en el fondo de mis ojos como tú te deseas.

This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he lives surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story.

When you want to understand something you stand in front of it, alone, without help: all the past in the world is of no use. Then it disappears and what you wanted to understand disappears with it.

Who also accuse existentialism of being too gloomy, it makes me wonder if what they are really annoyed about is not its pessimism, but rather its optimism.