It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.
Patrick RothfussStichwörter: identity stories storytelling self-image sense-of-self
I'm not really sure which parts of myself are real and which parts are things I've gotten from books.
Beatrice SparksStichwörter: identity sense-of-self
For in some ways the world was like a shopping centre, and he himself was a doubtful customer, often ineffectual, being talked into buying things he didn't want, things indeed which nobody in their right mind would want to buy.
Margaret MahyStichwörter: identity confidence sense-of-self shopping
It's all right letting yourself go, as long as you can get yourself back.
Mick JaggerStichwörter: life sense-of-self
O, wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An' foolish notion.
Stichwörter: error perception foolishness sense-of-self embarrassment
Up until then it had only been himself. Up to then it had been a private wrestle between him and himself. Nobody else much entered into it. After the people came into it he was, of course, a different man. Everything had changed then and he was no longer the virgin, with the virgin's right to insist upon platonic love. Life, in time, takes every maidenhead, even if it has to dry it up; it does not matter how the owner wants to keep it. Up to then he had been the young idealist. But he could not stay there. Not after the other people entered into it.
James JonesStichwörter: virginity indifference emotions autonomy sense-of-self
Every autobiography is concerned with two characters, a Don Quixote, the Ego, and a Sancho Panza, the Self.
W.H. AudenStichwörter: perception autobiography sense-of-self
In heated rooms, he often felt the outlines of his body, the border between him and the external world, grow disturbingly fuzzy.
Ryū MurakamiStichwörter: heat sense-of-self weather boundaries temperature
Time is a cruel thief to rob us of our former selves. We lose as much to life as we do to death.
Elizabeth Forsythe HaileyStichwörter: life death living sense-of-self
So—I went on, on my own—deeper and deeper into the silent Tunnel of the Ride—not so sure of where I was and yet not anxious either, not concerned about my companions nor even about the nearness of—certain friends. The trees were beech, and the buds, just breaking, fiercely brilliant, and the new, the renewed light on them—intermittent diamond—but the depths were dark, a silent Nave. And no birds sang, or I heard none, no woodpecker tapped, no thrush whistled or hopped. And I listened to the increasing Quiet—and my horse went softly on the beech-mast—which was wet after rain—not crackling, a little sodden, not wet enough to plash. And I had the sensation, common enough, at least to me, that I was moving out of time, that the way, narrow and dark-dappled, stretched away indifferently before and behind, and that I was who I had been and what I would become—all at once, all wound in one—and I moved onward indifferently, since it was all one, whether I came or went, or remained still. Now to me such moments are poetry. [Randolph Henry Ash]
A.S. ByattStichwörter: sense-of-self moments-of-poetry sense-of-time
Seite 1 von 2.
nächste letzte »
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.