Simone de Beauvoir Quotes

What I write is different from what I say, what I say is different from what I think, what I think is different from what I ought to think and so it goes further into the deepest darkness.

I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.

Suffering and drama begin when you lie to yourself, even if you don't realize you are lying.

Oh, the lies that I have told myself and others. I knew it yet I didn't know.

The girl at her music sits in another sort of light,the fitful,overcast light of lie,by which we see ourselves and others only imprefectly, and seldom..-Girl,Interrupted

I freely admit I'm confused. I'm a confused and troubled individual but at the same time...Its Free!

I believe what I said yesterday. I don't know what I said, but I know what I think and I assume it's what I said.

Now I'm confused. Now I don't know what I want.

I didn't know what was going through my mind.

One learns in life to keep silent and draw one's own confusions.

I've said things and meant them, but I'm obviously a very confused person who has no idea how they feel about things.

There are times I can't even figure myself out.

I feel like I'm in my own head a lot; it just feels amazing, but scary, weird and confusing.

I have never met anyone who wasn't confused inside.

I'm not even sure who I really am sometimes.

There is no shame is being ambivalent about almost everything in your life.

What I felt then I feel now: the inexorable, unchanging interior hum of doubt and hope.

Sure, I’m dramatic and sloppily semi-cynical and semi-sentimental. But, in leisure years I could grow and choose my way. Now I am living on the edge. We all are on the brink, and it takes a lot of nerve, a lot of energy, to teeter on the edge, looking over, looking down into the windy blackness and not being quite able to make out, through the yellow, stinking mist, just what lies below in the slime, in the oozing, vomit-streaked slime; and so I could go on, my thoughts, writing much, trying to find the core, the meaning for myself.

Two things, almost incompatible, are united in me in a manner which I am unable to understand: a very ardent temperament, lively and tumultuous passions, and, at the same time, slowly developed and confused ideas, which never present themselves until it is too late. One might say that my heart and my mind do not belong to the same person.

The more I think of you, the less I think of you.

Looking out over the courtyard at the dirty walls, he realized he had no idea whether it was hysteria or love.

And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?

She looked back as well as she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she supposed and made everything bend to it.

When I turn the lights out, when I close my eyes, reality overcomes me, I'm living a lie.

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!