Best 2380 quotes in «identity quotes» category

Our finger print represents our unique identity and individuality.

Our first experience of life is primarily felt in the *body.* ... We know ourselves in the security of those who hold us and gaze upon us. It's not heard or seen or thought it's felt. That's the original knowing.

Our identity as Christians is a purpose-driven life

Our identity is like a kaleidoscope. With each turn we reset it not to a former or final state but to a new one that reflects the here-and-now positions of the pieces we have to work with. The design is always new because the shifts are continual. That is what makes kaleidoscopes, and us, so appealing and beautiful.

Our identity in the world is like a wave from the Ocean.

Our identity has already been chosen for us; but it is up to us to accept it, or fight and change it.

Our identity is affected less and less by what we produce and more and more by what we consume.

Our identity is in Christ, not in our work, our accomplishments or our own good works. Our provision is from God alone, not our jobs or our money. Our authority is in Christ alone, not our own power or strength, apart from Jesus Christ, we do not have any authority, identity or provision. He is our all and our everything.

Our identity is like that of an onion; with each experience we endure, a layer is peeled away, finally revealing who we really are at the core.

Our identity should be about what sphere of life we ought to bring to light as Christians

Our minds have this strange ability to make associations using ourselves as a reference point. They create our identities based on our relation to people and things. They aim for control because ownership falsely promises us an elevated sense of self. But this is exactly the opposite of love. When we fall in love, we disidentify and get lost for a little while in a song, a beautiful painting, and most of all, we get lost in our lover. And through their love, we find our true infinite selves.

Our personal identities are socially situated. We are where we live, eat, work, and make love. [...] Our sense of identity is in large measure conferred on us by others in the ways they treat or mistreat us, recognize or ignore us, praise us or punish us. Some people make us timid and shy; others elicit our sex appeal and dominance. In some groups we are made leaders, while in others we are reduced to being followers. We come to live up to or down to the expectations others have of us. The expectations of others often become self-fulfilling prophecies. Without realizing it, we often behave in ways that confirm the beliefs others have about us. Those subjective beliefs create new realities for us. We often become who other people think we are, in their eyes and in our behavior.

Our privileges are the things not within our own control that push us forward and move us ahead from that starting line. Acknowledging them does not mean you are admitting to doing something to contribute to someone's else oppression. It means that you recognize that some part of your identity puts you in a better position than others.

Our selves are are rough and unrehearsed tales we tell the world.

Our talents don't define us any more than our faults.

Our work is not to become unique. We are unique. Our work is to unleash our sense of adventure and to allow the inner whisper that says “come hither” to be reason enough to go.

Owning Languages, Owning identities.

Pain actually steals a lot more than happiness from a person; it steals a part of the identity, of the soul.

Pain makes people who they are.

Paradoxically, too much information can contribute to our becoming less aware, especially if that information is narrow and biased.

Patriarchal hip-hop ushered in a world where black males could declare that they were “keeping it real” when what they were really doing was taking the dead patriarchal protest of the black power movement and rearticulating it in forms that, though entertaining, had for the most part no transformative power, no ability to intervene on the politics of domination, and turn the real lives of black men around.

[Patricia Highsmith] had experienced at first hand many of Ripley's characteristics - splintered identity, insecurity, inferiority, obsession with an object of adoration, and the violence that springs from repression. Like her young anti-hero, she knew that in order to survive, it was necessary to prop oneself up with a psychological fantasy of one's own making. 'Happiness, for me, is a matter of imagination,' she wrote in her notebook while writing The Talented Mr. Ripley. 'Existence is a matter of unconscious elimination of negative and pessimistic thinking. I mean, to survive at all. And this applies to everyone. We are all suicides under the skin, and under the surface of our lives.

People always say how you should be yourself. Like yourself is a definite thing, like a toaster or something.

People are not two-thirds one thing and the remainder something else. Temperament, personality, or outlook don’t divide quite like that. The bits don’t separate clearly. You end up a funny homogeneous mixture. This is something that will become more common in the latter part of the century—people with mixed cultural backgrounds, and mixed racial backgrounds. That’s the way the world is going.

people around you are reflections of your own identity.

People change, though, especially after they are dead.

People in exile are rich -- rich with the accumulated sum of their contradictory identities.

People must come to the understanding that they do not have a fixed identity. They have the power to identify and alter features of their personalities that they find negative or unpleasant.

People love their causes they champion; they love their divisions and neatly packaged boxes of identity; for without them, they would be forced to look within, find themselves, set aside pettiness and face reality (that's quite frightening to most). As a result, they are like a lost ship at sea, forced to submit to the waves of society.

People might consider you eccentric for being different, but this is good. Leaders and visionaries are not conformists afraid of standing out.

People pretend to be other people because they have never thought of their true selves

People sometimes express beliefs that are not their own.

Perhaps it’s impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be. She thought of that, worried about it for a few days, and then wrote a column using that as a premise, to show that politicians who toadied to the Russians in order to keep the peace would inevitably end up subservient to them in everything.

People try to build their identity around external things such as appearance and the clothes at the expense of neglecting the inner values of who they really are

People with DID often experience conflicting advice or opinions emanating from their alter personalities. Individual alter personalities may have coherent, consistent identities, but, taken as a group, the incompatible internal personalities generate an atmosphere of conflict as well as incoherence. As one patient described it, "Do you know how hard it is to get a hundred and four minds to come together to a single decision?

People with dissociative disorders are like actors trapped in a variety of roles. They have difficulty integrating their memories, their sense of identity and aspects of their consciousness into a continuous whole. They find many parts of their experience alien, as if belonging to someone else. They cannot remember or make sense of parts of their past.

People talk about anal sex as though it’s the be-all and end-all of gay identity.

People still have different religions and national identities. But when it comes to the practical stuff – how to build a state, an economy, a hospital, or a bomb – almost all of us belong to the same civilisation. There are disagreements, no doubt, but then all civilisations have their internal disputes. Indeed, they are defined by these disputes. When trying to outline their identity, people often make a grocery list of common traits. That’s a mistake. They would fare much better if they made a list of common conflicts and dilemmas. For example, in 1618 Europe didn’t have a single religious identity – it was defined by religious conflict. To be a European in 1618 meant to obsess about tiny doctrinal differences between Catholics and Protestants or between Calvinists and Lutherans, and to be willing to kill and be killed because of these differences. If a human being in 1618 did not care about these conflicts, that person was perhaps a Turk or a Hindu, but definitely not a European.

Perhaps—and this was her most persistent thought, the thought that stayed with her and came suddenly to trouble her at odd moments, and to comfort her—suppose, actually, she were not Natalie Waite, college girl, daughter to Arnold Waite, a creature of deep lovely destiny; suppose she were someone else?

Perhaps we have stopped ourselves from being invented, from self-realization, by blaming others for our wordlessness.

Peter." The fine hair along her spine rising, Vicky could feel the power in a name. This is who you are, it said. Come back to us.

Politics is /all/ emotion-- hating the other side, valorizing your own, propping up your own identity. I'm right, I'm righteous, I /care/. No one can stand to admit they're as compromised and clueless as everyone else. People decide something /feels/ right, then they warp all their thinking around that.

(President) Lyndon Johnson still snapped between exultation and insecurity.

Pretend that you are the soul inside everyone you meet.

...pursuing life premised on faith and passion isn't about thinking - it's what thinking was designed to prevent. It's not logical in any way, shape, or form... A terrifying reveal of 'identity' as pure fiction - mere stories we tell ourselves about who we are and why we do what we do to comfort us against the paralyzing unknowable - that forces us and others to confront the truth about choices made.

Public deceptions are another reason to judge people on the merits of the evidence and not their group identity. The word justice does not require a qualifier.

Put it on record --I am an Arab And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. --I am an Arab Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight childern For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your doors, --Lower not myself at your doorstep. --What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. --I am an Arab. I am a name without a tide, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. --My roots --Took hold before the birth of time --Before the burgeoning of the ages, --Before cypess and olive trees, --Before the proliferation of weeds. My father is from the family of the plough --Not from highborn nobles. And my grandfather was a peasant --Without line or genealogy. My house is a watchman's hut --Made of sticks and reeds. Does my status satisfy you? --I am a name without a surname. Put it on Record. --I am an Arab. Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: --On my head the 'iqal cords over a keffiyeh --Scratching him who touches it. My address: --I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, --Its streets without name --And all its men in the fields and quarry. --What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. --I am an Arab. You stole my forefathers' vineyards --And land I used to till, --I and all my childern, --And you left us and all my grandchildren --Nothing but these rocks. --Will your government be taking them too --As is being said? So! --Put it on record at the top of page one: --I don't hate people, --I trespass on no one's property. And yet, if I were to become starved --I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. --Beware, beware of my starvation. --And of my anger!

Querido, a esa anciana le sucedió una cosa sumamente peculiar, le sucedió un poco antes de morir. Le creció barba. Comenzó a salirle en la cara, pelos bastante largos. Eran de color amarillo y fuertes como alambres. Yo la afeitaba, ella estaba paralítica de la cabeza a los pies, su piel era como la de un muerto. Pero aquella barba le crecía tan de prisa que casi no podía mantenerle la cara limpia, y cuando murió, Miss Amy le dijo al barbero del pueblo que viniera. Bueno, señor, el hombre echó un vistazo, volvió a bajar las escaleras y salió por la puerta delantera.

Quentin had grown up with that; the mere names were interchangeable and almost myriad. His childhood was full of them; his very body was an empty hall echoing with sonorous defeated names; he was not a being, an entity, he was a commonwealth. He was a barracks filled with stubborn back-looking ghosts still recovering, even forty-three years afterward, from the fever which had cured the disease, waking from the fever without even knowing that it had been the fever itself which they had fought against and not the sickness, looking with stubborn recalcitrance backward beyond the fever and into the disease with actual regret, weak from the fever yet free of the disease and not even aware that the freedom was that of impotence.

Questions from earlier circle like buzzards. Am I running away or moving forward?