Quotes About Perception

In the back of my mind's eye, everything had a fuzzy green haze on it, like a brand-new tennis ball. The world was getting its Shine on.

Mister Pierre was finally looking at the baby's body. "A boy? Why aren't you two lackwits seeing to my child?" There had been women's voices in this room all these long hours. Mister Pierre's booming was like sudden thunder during a soft rain.

No one ever knows the heart of anyone else

It made me understand that we don't always get to decide what we let in and what we keep out. A door is just an idea.

Maybe in Sue Cox's case they shouldn't be called laugh lines, Bena thought. Not in Bena's own case either. Who was it that thought women got wrinkles from laughing so much?

Humans insist on defining reality by their standards. They are poorly equipped to do so, since they are selectively deaf and blind in one eye. They are beings with an insatiable need to categorize the universe that surrounds them, but demand that the facts reveal a universe suited for human cultivation and exploitation. Things must remain status quo.

We women talk too much, but even then we don't tell half what we know.

I married beneath me. All women do.

As the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said—as quoted by Della more often than Liv cared to count—"Talent hits a target no one else can hit; Genius hits a target no one else can see.

I'm cool enough to have moved from iceberg lettuce to romaine. I wasn't cool enough for field greens, which I kind of think might be weeds that some chef somewhere is having a huge belly laugh over—sort of like the Emperor's new clothes.

Some people see things others cannot, and they are right, and we call them creative geniuses. Some people see things others cannot, and they are wrong, and we call them mentally ill. And some people, like John Nash, are both.

My brother, Stephen, has always said I live in a world of fairy tales. That is laughable, though, because the books I read contain all sorts of murder and mayhem, usually committed with revolvers or knives, and once even a machete.

Some people sense is wasted on and that's purely a fact.

Udell was an ordinary man, I thought, but a man with an extraordinary way of thinking. That was truly worth more than gold: extraordinary thinking.

In my head I remember that day the Indian man came and hollered at our camp and hadn't hurt anyone yet and I think that he was trying to say something, but no one will lift their eyes when I speak so I don't say anything.

How is it possible for me to feel so young and so old at the same time?

Reckon women don't think like men." "Why on earth don't they learn how?" I rubbed my face. "Ain't meant to, honey." I smiled and kissed his brow. "It occurs to us to ask the same thing. Keeps the world turning, I suspect.

want to wear scarlet velvet and slippers and lace gloves and ride in a stage instead of wearing calluses on my hands driving a team like a man. It is not her fault. She is right. The Lord looks on the inside, although people look on the outside. That man is measuring cloth

is a funny thing how much more proud people can be of themselves if they never step back and take a good look in a glass.

pictured that one Indian man I stood so close to I could hear his breathing, and those filthy, awful men I killed, and I know Indians aren't no dirtier than any white folks and cleaner than some. Not stupid, either. But I saved my breath. The likes of her isn't going to listen nor be changed in the mind just from hearing sense. Some people sense is wasted on and that's purely a fact.

I make believe all my dear ones are not gone, just out of my line of sight beyond some curtain or cluster of people, or tree

Well, there is rough old Albert, as ornery as any big brother a girl could have, putting his arm around Savannah and cooing to her like a repenting hound dog, and promising her she is not common nor shameful. I watched all this and thought you just never know sometimes what's in a man's heart. When you think he is all tough nails and boards he can be different on the inside. It makes me wonder about other men I know, too.

It used to be on the Internet no one knew you were a dog. Now not only does everyone know that you are a dog, they know what kind of a dog you are, who you run with, where you hide your bones, the accidental piddle behind the couch, the fight you got into with the boxer, and your thoughts on the hot poodle down the street.

Slow people are just paying close attention.