Leslie Marmon Silko Quotes

I have no knowledge of myself as I am, but merely as I appear to myself.

I--this thought which is called I--is the mould into which the world is poured like melted wax.

Where are my sensations? They have melted into... me, and what is this me, this self, but the sum of these evaporated sensations?

Although he may not be human, it’s good that Messi still thinks he is.

I find that when I do not think of myself I do not think at all.

What happens [in a coma] is that you lose the grounding of the self, you no longer have access to any feeling of your own existence.

I stare at the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not.

Art isn't anecdote. It's the consciousness we bring to bear in our lives.

I know myself as mortal, but this raises the question: "What is I?" Am I an individual, or am I an evolving life stream composed of countless selves?

The self... is not an organic thing that has a specific location, whose fundamental fate is to be born, to mature, to die; it is a dramatic effect arising diffusely from a scene that is presented.

To know nothing about yourself is to live. To know yourself badly is to think.

I'm not always what I think I am, but I am what I think.

Also, where does your identity come from? Your memory, of course.

I have seen without perceiving I have been another man Let me pierce the realm of glamour So I know just what I am.

Without consciousness there would, practically speaking, be no world, for the world exists as such only in so far as it is consciously reflected and considered by a psyche. Consciousness is a precondition of being.

I wondered, as I wondered so often when I was that age, who I was, and what exactly was looking at the face in the mirror. If the face I was looking at wasn't me, and I knew it wasn't, because I would still be me whatever happened to my face, then what was me? And what was watching?

The feeling of an unbridgeable gulf between consciousness and brain-process:When does this feeling occur in the present case?It is when I (for example) turn my attention in a particular way on to my own consciousness, and, astonished, say to myself: THIS is supposed to be produced by a process in the brain!--as it were clutching my forehead.

The observer is the observed.

Can a man of perception respect himself at all?

The world you see outside of you will always be a reflection of what you have inside of you.

I have a body, but I am not my body. I have a face, but I am not my face.

In the end, we self-perceiving, self-inventing, locked-in mirages are little miracles of self-reference.

Consciousness has forced us into the paradoxical position of striving to be unself-conscious of what we are - hunks of spoiling flesh on disintegrating bones.

Perhaps to lose a sense of where you are implies the danger of losing a sense of who you are.

The thing to do is to concentrate on the seer and not on the seen, not on the objects, but on the Light which reveals them.