Writing feels safer somehow. I can catch myself before I say the wrong thing.
I’m still pretty sick about what I’ve lost, but I only admit it to myself late at night, which is probably why I’m not the best sleeper.
My anger feels hot and bilious but I keep it bottled until it doubles back and I'm mad at myself.
I tell myself I’m fine on my own, but am I? No friends to fall back on, no relationships, no support. Left to my own devices, I have no devices.
I preferred to think of myself as a cat. If I think of my behavior as cat behavior instead of people behavior, it pretty much always makes sense.
It was enough to drive me mad. I was no longer myself and yet I was so much more me than I had ever been before. ~Katherine Demure
I had no desire to hear another woman tell my boyfriend how hot he was. If I wanted him to know, I'd damn well tell him myself.
Maybe I did mean to kill myself. I didn't think it outright but...maybe the truth is, I didn't--I don't--much care one way or th'other.
I'll get there, if I leave everything but my bones behind," said Sam. "And I'll carry Mr. Frodo up myself, if it breaks my back and heart.
Stir not the bitterness in the cup that I mixed for myself,' said Denethor. 'Have I not tasted it now many nights upon my tongue, foreboding that worse lay in the dregs?
Lose myself in your blueberry eyes Magnolia, kiss your mauve lips of grapes, squeeze your fleshy, milky macaroon breasts,smell your opium breath of subconsciousness, labyrinth of desires.
Dreams, dreams. I walk them; I live them. I delude myself with them. It's a wonder I can spot reality anymore.
I tell myself not to feel sexually threatened. I am of no special interest; he could just as easily be angling for the printer.
I can't. If I do, I will second guess myself and nothing would get done. I'd stay in one place. I'd let my fear get me.
The novel is the privileged vehicle of two ways of being: narrative and freedom: to be new (novel) in a speech open to all, and to be free in a speech that never concludes.
In my inmost heart I believed that I could succeed where others failed, and now I had the opportunity to test myself.
I couldn’t bring myself to call him either “Bill,” which would signal friendly familiarity, or “Doctor Vogel,” which would imply respect.
The New York Daily News suggested that my biggest war crime was not killing myself like a gentleman. Presumably Hitler was a gentleman.
I wondered if that was what I was doing myself – caring so much about something that was so long gone that I was only propping it up.
...I tell myself it does not matter what one reads--favorite authors, particular themes--as long as we read something. It is not even important to own the books.
If I were being honest with myself, he lit a blaze, not just a blush, but that’s too much reality for me to admit.
