Quotes About Musing

I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding.

Thought is action in rehearsal.

LOL-inspiring thought: Wouldn't it

Not to have been born, merely musing on that - what freedom, what space!

Not to have been born, merely musing on that—what happiness, what freedom, what space!

The defect of this religion is, that it is too abstract for the practical, and too bare for the musing.

Occasionally a moderately intelligent thought misses a turn and accidentally enters my mind

I couldn't bear to think about it; and yet, somehow, I couldn't think about nothing else.

he was, I knew perfectly well what it was over which he was brooding.

she thought to herself.

Then she remembered.

When David wasn't ruling, he would ponder all the various forms of laughter there could be. So far, he had only categorized four: laughter at your own expense, laughter at the expense of others, laughter at the human predicament, and laughter at small animals falling off tables.

I've always reflected on the game.

glum. It meant having the blues in a way that annoyed other people. Having the blues aggressively. "Well, why don't you take a week and do some thinking on it?

I wonder if I shall understand you even at the end of a lifetime, he mused, folding his arms across his chest.

She remembered—oh, she could not stop remembering.

Few people think more than two or three times a year," Shaw reportedly said.

Thinking is one of the greatest pleasures of the human race.

Awestruck at this unexpected glimpse into a past beyond the conception of the most daring anthropologist, I stood musing whilst the moon cast queer reflections on the silent channel before me.

Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other; To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm.

If he only knew how much, she thought as she moved on. As

That night as I lay in bed, I thought of several things I could have said and mourned the fact that my wit usually bloomed late, peaking when it no longer mattered, during the solitary hours close to midnight.

He feels, as he sometimes does, as most people must, a presence in the room, what he can only think of as his and Rebecca's living ghosts, the amalgamation of their dreams and their breathing, their smells. He does not believe in ghosts, but he believes in...something. Something viable, something living, that's surprised when he wakes at this hour, that's neither glad nor sorry to see him awake but that recognizes the fact, because it has been interrupted in its nocturnal inchoate musings.

Nay, men are so far from musing of their sins, that they disdain this practise, and scoff at it: what say they, if all were of your mind; what should become of us? Shall we be always poring on our corruptions?