Quotes about Introspection

For she was a child, throwing bread to the ducks, between her parents who stood by the lake, holding her life in her arms which, as she neared them, grew larger and larger in her arms, until it became a whole life, a complete life, which she put down by them and said, This is what I have made of it! This! And what had she made of it? What, indeed?

I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts.

There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room.

For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself, there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself.

My head is a hive of words that won't settle.

But what is more to the point is my belief that the habit of writing thus for my own eye only is good practice. It loosens the ligaments. Never mind the misses and the stumbles.

But I was thinking; feeling; living; those two lives that the two halves symbolized with the intensity, the muffled intensity, which a butterfly or moth feels when with its sticky tremulous legs and antennae it pushes out of the chrysalis and emerges and sits quivering beside the broken case for a moment; its wings still creased; its eyes dazzled, incapable of flight.

This late age of the world's experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears.

This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say.

We scarcely want to analyse what we feel to be so large and deeply human.

To be myself (I note) I need the illumination of other people's eyes, and therefore cannot be entirely sure what is my self.

To be myself (I note) I need the illumination of other people's eyes, and therefore cannot be entirely sure what is my self.