Quotes About Stream Of Consciousness

Quotes tagged as "stream-of-consciousness" (showing 1-29 of 29)
Jay Woodman
“We have the greatest power through love that can be known. It overcomes everything with its fierce and steady truth, if you can continue to stand in it.

You can call love to you, directly from the original stream of consciousness, anytime you feel weak or fearful, and you will be given strength and courage.

You can call love to you, directly from the original stream of consciousness, anytime you feel sad or alone, and you will feel embraced and comforted.

Call love to you if you feel vulnerable. Feel its purity come to you from the universe and flow round you like a miraculous mother cradling its innocent child.

Breathe love in. Say to yourself as you breathe deeply “I love. I am loved.” Say it over and over as you breathe it into yourself and out to the universe, until you really feel and believe that you ARE LOVE.

Feel love pour into your lungs as you breathe. Feel it circulate round your body to fill every organ, every limb, and every cell. Vibrate with its radiance, and share it.”
Jay Woodman

“We are what we remember. If we lose our memory, we lose our identity and our identity is the accumulation of our experiences. When we walk down the memory lane, it can be unconsciously, willingly, selectively, impetuously or sometimes grudgingly. By following our stream of consciousness we look for lost time and things past. Some reminiscences become anchor points that can take another scope with the wisdom of hindsight. ("Walking down the memory lane" )”
Erik Pevernagie

Charlotte Eriksson
“Living in this skin is hard and painful, most of the times, because I never volunteered to take this on. The daily sacrifice of heart over mind,
the forever ongoing task of explaining this and that,
and why I don’t want to look like this and
be like that
but still here I am and if this is the body I’ve been given I’m sure as hell gonna make it work.”
Charlotte Eriksson

Chila Woychik
“I continue to live inside a dichotomy: what was and what shall be. The pain in my skull is me trying to mesh the two.”
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations

James Joyce
“Does nobody understand?”
James Joyce

Asghar Abbas
“she looked like something chiseled from a memory of a lost and long forgotten god.”
Asghar Abbas

Charlotte Eriksson
“For I have nothing to lean on, nowhere to call my home and there is nowhere I will go for Christmas to rest my head and touch familiar walls. I have no degree to show on paper or employment to take care of my health or the reassurance that I can pay my rent. And I have no right to complain because this is the road I choose and I built it myself, not really knowing where I wanted it to lead, but I have hope in all things ahead and behind and I am learning to let myself go. Forget my own ego and believe that what I am doing is grander than my very own self.”
Charlotte Eriksson

Luis Martín-Santos
“Solo aquí, qué bien, me parece que estoy encima de todo. No me puede pasar nada. Yo soy el que paso. Vivo. Vivo. Fuera de tantas preocupaciones, fuera del dinero que tenía que ganar, fuera de la mujer con la que me tenía que casar, fuera de la clientela que tenía que conquistar, fuera de los amigos que me tenían que estimar, fuera del placer que tenía que perseguir, fuera del alcohol que tenía que beber. Si estuvieras así. Manténte ahí. Ahí tienes que estar. Tengo que estar aquí, en esta altura, viendo cómo estoy solo, pero así, en lo alto, mejor que antes, más tranquilo, mucho más tranquilo. No caigas. No tengo que caer. Estoy así bien, tranquilo, no me puede pasar nada, porque lo más que me puede para es seguir así, estando donde quiero estar, tranquilo, viendo todo, tranquilo, estoy bien, estoy bien, estoy muy bien así, no tengo nada que desear.

Tú no la mataste. Estaba muerta. Yo la maté. ¿Por qué? ¿Por qué? Tú no la mataste. Estaba muerta. Yo no la maté. Ya estaba muerta. Yo no la maté. Ya estaba muerta. Yo no fui. No pensar. No pensar. No pienses. No pienses en nada. Tranquilo, estoy tranquilo. No me pasa nada. Estoy tranquilo así. Me quedo así quieto. Estoy esperando. No tengo que pensar. No me pasa nada. Estoy tranquilo, el tiempo pasa y yo estoy tranquilo porque no pienso en nada. Es cuestión de aprender a no pensar en nada, de fijar la mirada en la pared, de hacer que tú quieras hacer porque tu libertad sigue existiendo también ahora. Eres un ser libre para dibujar cualquier dibujo o bien para hacer una raya cada día que vaya pasando como han hecho otros, y cada siete días una raya más larga, porque eres libre de hacer las rayas todo lo largas que quieras y nadie te lo puede impedir.”
Luis Martín-Santos, Tiempo de silencio

James Joyce
“His brain was simmering and bubbling within the cracking tenement of the skull.Flames burst forth from his skull like a corolla,shrieking like voices: -Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell!”
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Virginia Woolf
“Away and away the aeroplane shot, till it was nothing but a bright spark; an aspiration; a concentration; a symbol (so it seemed to Mr. Bentley, vigorously rolling his strip of turf at Greenwich) of man's soul; of his determination, thought Mr. Bentley, sweeping round the cedar tree, to get outside his body, beyond his house, by means of thought, Einstein, speculation, mathematics, the Mendelian theory––away the aeroplane shot.”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Chila Woychik
“sunset and evening star hunching and bending sleeping and slipping virus pneumonia coughing and crying hope in the small things heaven looks brighter aching and falling earth is still darkness slip into sleeping sleepings of death dead now and buried cold now and crumbling dust now and hope-filled heaven is hope (and loneliness lingers in those left behind)”
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations

E.L. Doctorow
“I cite too the ordinary fears of mortality the inspection of a fast-growing mole on the side of the nose blood in the stool a painful injury or the mournful witness of the slow death of a parent all this is given to all men as well as the starting awake in the nether hours of the night from such glutinous nightmare that on'e self name relationships nationality place in life all data of specificity wipe out amnesiatically asiatically you don't even know the idea human it is such a low hour of the night and he shares it with all of us.”
E.L. Doctorow, Loon Lake

Graciliano Ramos
“Conheci que Madalena era boa em demasia, mas não conheci tudo de uma vez. Ela se revelou pouco a pouco, e nunca se revelou inteiramente. A culpa foi minha, ou antes, a culpa foi desta vida agreste, que me deu uma alma agreste. E, falando assim, compreendo que perco o tempo. Com efeito, se me escapa o retrato moral de minha mulher, para que serve esta narrativa? Para nada, mas sou forçado a escrever.

Quando os grilos cantam, sento-me aqui à mesa da sala de jantar, bebo café, acendo o cachimbo. Às vezes as idéias não vêm, ou vêm muito numerosas e a folha permanece meio escrita, como estava na véspera. Releio algumas linhas, que me desagradam. Não vale a pena tentar corrigi-las. Afasto o papel.

Emoções indefiníveis me agitam inquietação terrível, desejo doido de voltar, tagarelar novamente com Madalena, como fazíamos todos os dias, a esta hora. Saudade? Não, não é isto: é desespero, raiva, um peso enorme no coração.

Procuro recordar o que dizíamos. Impossível. As minhas palavras eram apenas palavras, reprodução imperfeita de fatos exteriores, e as dela tinham alguma coisa que não consigo exprimir. Para senti-las melhor, eu apagava as luzes, deixava que a sombra nos envolvesse até ficarmos dois vultos indistintos na escuridão.

Lá fora os sapos arengavam, o vento gemia, as árvores do pomar tornavam-se massas negras.

- Casimiro!

(...) A figura de Casimiro Lopes aparece à janela, os sapos gritam, o vento sacode as árvores, apenas visíveis na treva. Maria das Dores entra e vai abrir o comutador.

Detenho-a: não quero luz.

O tique-taque do relógio diminui, os grilos começam a cantar. E Madalena surge no lado de lá da mesa. Digo baixinho:

- Madalena!

A voz dela me chega aos ouvidos. Não, não é aos ouvidos. Também já não a vejo com os olhos. Estou encostado à mesa, as mãos cruzadas. Os objetos fundiram-se, e não enxergo sequer a toalha branca.

- Madalena...

A voz de Madalena continua a acariciar-me. Que diz ela? Pede-me naturalmente que mande algum dinheiro a Mestre Caetano. Isto me irrita, mas a irritação é diferente das outras, é uma irritação antiga, que me deixa inteiramente calmo. Loucura estar uma pessoa ao mesmo tempo zangada e tranqüila. Mas estou assim. Irritado contra quem? Contra Mestre Caetano. Não obstante ele ter morrido, acho bom que vá trabalhar. Mandrião!

A toalha reaparece, mas não sei se é esta toalha sobre que tenho as mãos cruzadas ou a que estava aqui há cinco anos.

(...) Agitam-se em mim sentimentos inconciliáveis, colerizo-me e enterneço-me; bato na mesa e tenho vontade de chorar. Aparentemente estou sossegado: as mãos continuam cruzadas sobre a toalha e os dedos parecem de pedra. Entretanto ameaço Madalena com o punho. Esquisito.

Distingo no ramerrão da fazenda as mais insignificantes minudências. Maria das Dores, na cozinha, dá lições ao papagaio. Tubarão rosna acolá no jardim. O gado muge no estábulo. O salão fica longe: para irmos lá temos de atravessar um corredor comprido. Apesar disso a palestra de Seu Ribeiro e Dona Glória é bastante clara. A dificuldade seria reproduzir o que eles dizem. É preciso admitir que estão conversando sem palavras.

Padilha assobia no alpendre. Onde andará Padilha? Se eu convencesse Madalena de que ela não tem razão... Se lhe explicasse que é necessário vivermos em paz... Não me entende. Não nos entendemos. O que vai acontecer será muito diferente do que esperamos. Absurdo.

Há um grande silêncio. Estamos em julho. O nordeste não sopra e os sapos dormem.

(...)

Repito que tudo isso continua a azucrinar-me. O que não percebo é o tique-taque do relógio. Que horas são? Não posso ver o mostrador assim às escuras. Quando me sentei aqui, ouviam-se as pancadas do pêndulo, ouviam-se muito bem. Seria conveniente dar corda ao relógio, mas não consigo mexer-me.”
Graciliano Ramos, São Bernardo

David Lodge
“perhaps it will I said perhaps it will be wonderful perhaps even though it won't be like you think perhaps that won't matter perhaps”
David Lodge, The British Museum Is Falling Down

James Joyce
“Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes.”
James Joyce, Ulysses

Virginia Woolf
“Here was So-and-so in South Kensington; some one up in Bayswater; and somebody else, say, in Mayfair. And she felt quite continuously a sense of their existence; and she felt what a waste; and she felt what a pity; and she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it. And it was an offering; to combine, to create; but to whom?

An offering for the sake of offering, perhaps. Anyhow, it was her gift. Nothing else had she of the slightest importance; could not think, write, even play the piano. She muddled Armenians and Turks; loved success; hated discomfort; must be liked; talked oceans of nonsense: and to this day, ask her what the Equator was, and she did not know. All the same, that one day should follow another; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday; that one should wake up in the morning; see the sky; walk in the park; meet Hugh Whitbread; then suddenly in came Peter; then these roses; it was enough. After that, how unbelievable death was!—that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant . . .”
Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

Jay Woodman
“Never judge the others
for each one wears a cover
for their version of the original.

(talking about individuals in the stream of consciousness that gives rise to each one of us.)”
Jay Woodman

Chila Woychik
“Writing is a beast to tame, an energy to transform. Whip that toad into a prince and French kiss it to life. We start at the top but keep looking down, from macro to micro, from what could work to what does—but start with the dream. Nothing is real apart from the clouds, and all clouds pass with life in their wake—some rain thoughts.”
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations

Chila Woychik
“Writing analogies are as abundant as ants at a picnic. We love nothing better than a good analogy, a “life-is-like-this” on the page. I breathe and out pops another analogy. As of this moment, I am sole owner of 1,643 analogies.”
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations

Chila Woychik
“I feign knowledge of writing: that I know something about it, that I should have learned something after all these years, that I might know something tomorrow.
I read too much and write too little, or write too much and live too little. I have no classical education, no literary degree. I’m not specialized, Hugoed or geniusized; should I be writing at all?
In this whole vast world, I’m a female peon sitting here at night wondering what it is I want to say. I aim for fluidity. But no, nix that line, that thought, this life. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? This life: it’s out of reach. I’m not sure what I’m saying anymore.”
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations

Marcel Proust
“I would fall asleep, and often I would be awake again for short snatches only, just long enough to hear the regular creaking of the wainscot, or to open my eyes to settle the shifting kaleidoscope of the darkness, to savour, in an instantaneous flash of perception, the sleep which lay heavy upon the furniture, the room, the whole surroundings of which I formed but an insignificant part and whose unconsciousness I should very soon return to share.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

Mario Vargas Llosa
“Desde allí vio en un lento remolino, a su madre que saltaba de la cama y vio a su padre detenerla a medio camino y empujarla fácilmente hasta el lecho, y luego lo vio dar media vuelta y venir hacia él, vociferando, y se sintió en el aire, y, de pronto, estaba en su cuarto, a oscuras, y el hombre cuyo cuerpo resaltaba en la negrura le volvió a pegar e la cara,y todavía alcanzó a ver que el hombre se interponía entre él y su madre que cruzaba la puerta, la cogía de un brazo y la arrastraba como si fuera de trapo, y luego la puerta se cerró y él se hundió en una vertiginosa pesadilla”
Mario Vargas Llosa, La ciudad y los perros

Chila Woychik
“A mist rises from a nearby mound. It could be me, that mist, or simply the caretaker’s mower-dust. If the breeze blows just right, I’ll ghost your solid, entwine your hair. Promise me you won’t shampoo, but carry me along, tiny dust-particles of me.”
Chila Woychik, On Being a Rat and Other Observations

Marcel Proust
“Custom! that skillful but unhurrying manager who begins by torturing the mind for weeks on end with her provisional arrangements; whom the mind, for all that, is fortunate in discovering, for without the help of custom it would never contrive, by its own efforts, to make any room seem habitable.”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

Lindsay Hunter
“In high school Peggy Paula worked as a waiteress at the Perkins. Night shifts were her favorite, kids from her school would come in after games or dances with bleary eyes and messy hair and Peggy Paula knew they’d been drinking and smoking those flimsy joints she’d see them passing, the girls with smudged makeup and rat’s nests in the back of their heads, proud unblinking eyes, scanning the dining room like I dare you, I dare you to guess what I just let Jared or Steve or Casey do to me, I let him and I liked it and I don’t care.”
Lindsay Hunter, Don't Kiss Me: Stories

Nicholson Baker
“Now, why was diagonal cutting better than cutting straight across? Because the corner of a triangularly cut slice gave you an ideal first bite. In the case of rectangular toast, you had to angle the shape into your mouth, as you angle a big dresser through a hall doorway: you had to catch one corner of your mouth with one corner of the toast and then carefully turn the toast, drawing the mouth open with it so that its other edge could clear; only then did you chomp down. Also, with a diagonal slice, most of the tapered bite was situated right up near the front of your mouth, where you wanted it to be as you began to chew; with the rectangular slice, a burdensome fraction was riding out of control high on the dome of the tongue. One subway stop before mine, I concluded that there had been logic behind the progress away from the parallel and toward the diagonal cut, and that the convention was not, as it might first have appeared, merely an affection of short-order cooks.”
Nicholson Baker

Marcel Proust
“I would feel the satisfaction of being shut in from the outer world...”
Marcel Proust, Swann's Way

Marcel Proust
“For a long time I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say "I'm going to sleep." And half an hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me.”
Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

Fernando Pessoa
“To feel everything in every way; to be able to think with the emotions and feel with the mind; not to desire much except with the imagination; to suffer with haughtiness; to see clearly so as to write accurately; to know oneself through diplomacy and dissimulation; to become naturalized as a different person, with all the necessary documents; in short, to use all sensations but only on the inside, peeling them all down to God and then wrapping everything up again and putting it back in the shop window like the sales assistant I can see from here with the small tins of a new brand of shoe polish.”
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

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