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Home Experience Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.

ExperienceInspirational Quotes

Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.

Polly, January 22, 2013

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Tags : Soren Kierkegaard

Know thyself

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Each of us feels that we are a drop in the ocean, but the ocean would be less without that missing drop.

Polly

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To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.

To the mind that is still, the whole universe surrenders.

Human kind cannot bear very much reality.

Human kind cannot bear very much reality.

I don’t measure a man’s success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom.

I don’t measure a man’s success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom.

Himself is his own dungeon.

Himself is his own dungeon.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Maybe I couldn’t make it. Maybe I don’t have a pretty smile, good teeth, nice tits, long legs, a cheeky ass, a sexy voice. Maybe I don’t know how to handle men and increase my market value, so that the rewards due to the feminine will accrue to me. Then again, maybe I’m sick of the masquerade. I’m sick of pretending eternal youth. I’m sick of belying my own intelligence, my own will, my own sex. I’m sick of peering at the world through false eyelashes, so everything I see is mixed with a shadow of bought hairs; I’m sick of weighting my head with a dead mane, unable to move my neck freely, terrified of rain, of wind, of dancing too vigorously in case I sweat into my lacquered curls. I’m sick of the Powder Room. I’m sick of pretending that some fatuous male’s self-important pronouncements are the objects of my undivided attention, I’m sick of going to films and plays when someone else wants to, and sick of having no opinions of my own about either. I’m sick of being a transvestite. I refuse to be a female impersonator. I am a woman, not a castrate.

Always hold your head up, but be careful to keep your nose at a friendly level.

Always hold your head up, but be careful to keep your nose at a friendly level.

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