If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself. You must know all the while that it is there, but until it is needed you must never let it emerge into your consciousness in any shape that can be given a name.
Suppressing ideas never makes them go away.
I'm squandering invaluable gray matter by censoring myself.
This generation is frightened of ideas, or at least it's being suppressed.
Society needs a couple of vents that say what you're not supposed to say.
Exterminate learning and there will be no more worries.
Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
She forced herself once more to think of nothing, to keep her consciousness immersed, as a little dog that one keeps under water until he has stopped struggling
I must not say what I truly think, or you will tell me I flatter you-but I can only speak what I feel-and very often I cannot even do that when the feeling is very deep.
There was probably something as a child I wanted to express, something unsaid that I needed to share.
Every rippling muscle is a book not read, a movie not seen, or a conversation not held.
What goes unsaid eventually goes unthought
How many unuttered words died in the heads of those for whom a word was too expensive.
Knowledge is dangerous, which is why governments often clamp down on people who can think thoughts above a certain caliber.
Suppressing ideas never succeeds in making them go away.
Persecution in intellectual countries produces a superficial conformity, but also underneath an intense, incessant, implacable doubt.
Civilization has imposed countless restrictions and conventions on each of us, with the result that the subconscious in the majority of us has become a storage room without a key. We are forced to suppress or forget so many events and ideas and thoughts that those to which we should have access are lost in the welter. However, there are people who seem capable of unlocking this part of their minds and extracting relevant information.
Where else would she feel more comfortable than in this subterranean realm where people wrote down what they couldn't say, where they gave voice to their most shameful longings and knowledge?
Everybody in the world has a different reason for wishing they could say things that most people know not to say.
Mistakes are like the memories you hide in an attic: old love letters from relationships that tanked, photos of dead relatives, toys from a childhood you miss. Out of sight is out of mind, but somewhere deep inside you know they still exist. And you also know that you're avoiding them.
Roman’s a little gay boy who lives in me. And every time I talk he sort of just appears and I tell him, ‘Roman, you know, stop it, you’ve gone mad, I tell you, mad.’ He’s an outlet to say what I need to say but sometimes don’t want to.
