Harry Shearer Quotes

There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

I am convinced that any photographic attempt to show the complete man is nonsense. We can only show, as best we can, what the outer man reveals. The inner man is seldom revealed to anyone, sometimes not even the man himself.

The unfolding of the bare human soul...that is what interests me.

I'm about what goes through people's minds. The stuff that people don't want to admit or face up to. The shows are about what's buried in people's psyches.

There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.

She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.

The eyes are the window to where the soul is supposed to be.

The eyes are the windows to the soul

I have trouble describing characters because there is just too much going on in human beings.

If you looked down to the bottom of my soul, you would understand fully the source of my longing and – pity me. Even the open, transparent lake has its unknown depths, which no divers know.

It frightened him to think what must have gone to the making of her eyes.

They say that I am a poet I wonder what they would say if they saw me from the inside I bottle emotions and place them into the sea for others to unbottle on distant shores I am unsure as to whether they ever reach and for that matter as to whether I ever get my point across or my love

When a shadow flits across the landscape of the soul where is the substance?

What worth was a man who could not be haunted?

Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances.

Great drama is the souvenir of the adventure of a master among the pieces of his own soul.

She was moved by a kind of commiseration... a pity for that colorless existence which never uplifted its possessor beyond the region of blind contentment, in which no moment of anguish ever visited her soul, in which she would never have the taste of life's delirium.

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I know not what instruments, what fiddlestrings and harps, drums and tamboura I sound and clash inside myself. All I hear is the symphony.

All good writers express the state of their souls, even (as occurs in some cases of very good writers) if it is a state of damnation.

I don't think he was knowable. I mean, when most people talk about knowing somebody a lot or a little, they're talking about the secrets they've been told or haven't been told. They're talking about intimate things, family things, love things," that nice old lady said to me. "Mr. Hoenikker had all those things in his life, the way every living person has to, but they weren't the main things with him.

Your soul suffers if you live superficially.

I finally figured out that I’m solitary by nature, but at the same time I know so many people; so many people think they own a piece of me. They shift and move under my skin, like a parade of memories that simply won’t go away. It doesn’t matter where I am, or how alone--I always have such a crowded head.

I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding

I love him whose soul is deep even in the wounding, and may succumb through a small matter: thus goeth he willingly over the bridge.

Im not this tortured soul or anything.