Quotes About Introspective

It had been a while since Juliet had shared her bed with anyone. There had been a few, but she thought of them as mistakes rather than lovers

Sometimes he reminded me of a turtle hiding inside its shell, in there thinking about things and not ever sticking his head out into the world.

I'd take a look at my own self in the mirror and wonder how it was possible that anybody could manage such an enormous thing as being what he was.

And becomes aware of her image once more, vaguely reflected in the dirty attic window: what does it mean, all this concern about our images? It means this is the only way we ever see ourselves; looking out, at others, reflected through cobwebs from an attic window

How deeply one felt when alone.

Flatter yourself critically.

I'm not anti-social. I'm just not social.

I'm not anti-social. I'm just not social.

IT isn't good to talk much about the weather - weather is a highly personal matter

I think reality is over-rated,' he said in the hope that this might come across as dark and charismatic.

autobiography is concerned with the consciousness of its creator in the process of creating himself.

If I knew me as somebody else, I would hate me just as much. Why have a double standard?

I collect. Though I guess that wording would imply that I seek this stuff out; I actually meant "collect" in the way that dead bugs "collect" on your windshield.

The truth is a hard mirror, and I am in no mood to look upon my reflection.

You are maudlin and sentimental, and it is high time you took a rather hard look at yourself and realized you are in danger of becoming ridiculous.

No one knows a man better than himself.

Do not take someone's silence as his pride, perhaps he is busy fighting with his self

But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

Mirrors should reflect a little before throwing back images.

In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.

Sunday. I contemplate my books, piled up on the windowsill to constitute a small library: a rather useless one, for today no one will come to read them for me. Seneca, Zola, Chateaubriand, and Valery Larbaud are right there, three feet away, just out of reach. A very black fly settles on my nose. I waggle my head to unseat him. He digs in. Olympic wrestling is child's play compared to this. Sunday.

I'm used to watching old movies of myself.

The best person I know is Myself.

From the depths of the mirror, a corpse gazed back at me. The look in his eyes, as they stared into mine, has never left me.