Jean de la Bruyere Quotes

My family made it through Hurricane Sandy. We have water, power, and a roof, but the survivor's guilt makes me want to hide. Sneak away from the brilliance of life. It shouts at me: 'Don't enjoy anything too much; people are suffering.' I feel childlike somehow.

All of my close friends are emotional train wrecks. This is what makes our lives interesting - constantly doubting ourselves, worrying, wondering if we've made a mistake. Could we have done better? Are we good people? Are we bad people?

Whenever we feel shame, it's a mark of some deep investment or deep internal struggle.

She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?

…I hate myself for not being able to go downstairs naturally and seek comfort in numbers. I hate myself for having to sit here and be torn between I know not what within me.

How I hated the dark part of me that continually foretold of failure or futility.

You're burned into my mind forever. There is nothing, nothing in this world that will ever change that." And it was memories like that that made it so hard to comprehend this quest to kill him, even if he was a Strigoi. Yet...at the same time I had to destroy him. I needed to remember him as the man who'd loved me and held me in bed. I needed to remember that that man would not want to stay a monster.

She went around with a broken heart, and she wasn't sure who'd broken it. She thought it was herself, mostly.

I'm dreading the time that is not near As a man on a cross I have no fear I can't believe these words I'm saying You've got to feel your lines

Having got into bed and turned out the light, I quietly burst into tears because I am not a good person. As they came and went for some minutes, I was concerned with the words following 'because' in the previous sentence, rewriting them over and over in my head until they seemed to be as close to the truth as it was possible for me to make them.

My conscience aches but it's going to lose the fight.

...you are battered and bruised in the collisions between reminiscence and reality.

I drive around the streets an inch away from weeping, ashamed of my sentimentality and possible love.

Mattie sat at the table, obsessing, orbiting around herself. She was sick of her worried, hostile mind. It would have killed her long before, she felt, if it hadn't needed the transportation.

As a jealous man, I suffer four times over: because I am jealous, because I blame myself for being so, because I fear that my jealousy will wound the other, because I allow myself to be subject to a banality: I suffer from being excluded, from being aggressive, from being crazy, and from being common.

I have no self-respect. But can a man of acute sensibility respect himself at all?

The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.

She could not trust herself to hope—but without hope, she realized, she had no reason to go on.

How was it that he haunted her imagination so persistently? What could it be? Why did she care for what he thought, in spite of all her pride in spite of herself? She believed that she could have borne the sense of Almighty displeasure, because He knew all, and could read her penitence, and hear her cries for help in time to come. But Mr.Thornton-why did she tremble, and hide her face in the pillow? What strong feeling had overtaking her at last?

I know how to be the witness to her grief. I don't know how to be this kind of villain.

But when it came right down to it, the skin of my wrist looked so white and defensless that I couldn't do it. It was as if what I wanted to kill wasn't in that skin or the thin blue pulse that jumped under my thumb, but somewhere else, deeper, more secret, and a whole lot harder to get.

I was angry with myself because I still loved her, or at least I loved that dream of our togetherness. My feelings were unreasonable, irrational, and I couldn't change them. That hurt.

Did you really think I'd ceased to care? Kitten, I care so much it wrecks me.

Love: a grave mental disease.