William Wordsworth Quotes

I feel undefinable actually.

Just as black and white, when mixed, make grey, in many ways that's what it did to my self-identity: it created a murky area of who I was, a haze around how people connected with me. I was grey. And who wants to be this indifferent colour, devoid of depth and stuck in the middle? I certainly didn't.

People don't know where to place me, and I think that's why my audience is so big.

What are you?" I whispered. He shrugged again. "Something," he said. "Something like you, something like a beast, something like a bird, something like an angel." He laughed. "Something like that.

She knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.

How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going to be, from one minute to another.

There's some mysterious process at work here, which I don't even want to understand.

She didn't like being twelve. It felt like someplace between who she'd been and who she was about to be. It felt like no place at all.

I kind of miss that "becoming" stage, as most times you really don't know what's around the corner. Now, of course, I've kind of knocked on the door and heard a muffled answer. Nevertheless, I still don't know what the voice is saying, or even what language it's in.

I have no idea where I'm going but here's the real question: What am I doing here in the first place?

And when suddenly the god stopped her and, with anguish in his cry, uttered the words: ‘He has turned round’ – she comprehended nothing and said softly: ‘Who?

I've always remained totally myself, which is to say, without an idea... of what to do.

There were many hours when I never quite know how I'd gotten there or why I stayed.

Nobody knows who I am or what I do. Not even I. Don Juan Matus

He was currently wondering vaguely who Moey and Chandon were.

Some things were beyond understanding.

My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.

"There's a door," he whispered. "Where does it go?" "It stays where it is, I think," said Rincewind.

Life is a puzzle that I feel like we'll never fully put together.

How would I know which one I was?

Things are really weird around here, and most of us don't know everything. Half of everything.

On Monday, when the sun is hot, I wonder to myself a lot. Now is it true, or is it not, that what is which and which is what?

So when people ask me if there's another one, I say, "You know, I don't think so, but I don't know, and I kind of don't understand why."

Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, climb out of yourself for ever.

I guess I don't really know what I want to do, either. Sometimes I feel like a shook-up bottle of soda. Like, I have all this passion that wants to explode, but I don't know where to aim it yet.