Best 2380 quotes in «identity quotes» category

Membership of a larger group is not an identity. Being Asian is not an identity. Being gay is not an identity. Being deaf, blind, or wheelchair-bound is not an identity, nor is being economically deprived.

Memory is identity. I have believed this since – oh, since I can remember. You are what you have done; what you have done is in your memory; what you remember defines who you are; when you forget your life you cease to be, even before your death.

Men used to marry men. And women once took wives. It was done by the poor, the starving, the desperate, by those who needed a business pact or a shared roof. By soldiers on campaign with no one else to turn to. Mostly in was done by those without needs or troubles — done for love. The words tribadist and sodomite, the things they mean and define, came later. Before those words there were only people.

Mind makes a man of God.

Mi sento finalmente me stessa, forte e fragile al contempo… almeno per un po’, libera di essere entrambe le cose.

Mirror mirror on the wall, show the real me or naught at all.

Misschien is bang zijn van egoïsme veeleer een kwestie van vrezen dat je alleen maar liefde en waardering verdient als je anderen vooropstelt en hun pleziert, geeft wat ze nodig hebben, doen wat ze verwachten. Misschien is bovenal zorgen voor anderen een manier om geen verantwoordelijkheid te moeten nemen voor jezelf.

...modern Western culture has placed what it calls sexuality in a more and more distinctively privileged relation to our most prized constructs of individual identity, truth, and knowledge, it becomes truer and truer that the language of sexuality not only intersects with but transforms the other languages and relations by which we know.

Moi, le clandestin, je leur rappelle cela. Le vide. Le hasard qui les fonde. A tous. C’est pour ça qu’ils me haïssent. Parce que je rode dans leurs villes, parce que je squatte leurs bâtiments désaffectés, parce que j’accepte le travail qu’ils refusent, je leur dis, aux Européens, que j’aimerais être à leur place, que les privilèges que le sort aveugle leur a donnés, je voudrais les acquérir : en face de moi, ils réalisent qu’ils ont de la chance, qu’ils ont tiré un bon numéro, que le couperet fatal leur est passé au ras des fesses, et se souvenir de cette première et constitutive fragilité les glace, les paralyse. Car les hommes tentent, pour oublier le vide, de se donner de la consistance, de croire qu’ils appartiennent pour des raisons profondes, immuables, à une langue, une nation, une région, une race, une histoire, une morale, une histoire, une idéologie, une religion. Or malgré ces maquillages, chaque fois que l’homme s’analyse, ou chaque fois qu’un clandestin s’approche de lui, les illusions s’effacent, il aperçoit le vide : il aurait pu ne pas être ainsi, ne pas être italien, ne pas être chrétien, ne pas… Les identités qu’il cumule et qui lui accordent de la densité, il sait au fond de lui qu’il s’est borné à les recevoir, puis à les transmettre. Il n’est que le sable qu’on a versé en lui ; de lui-même, il n’est rien.

Moje myślenie wiecznie niegotowe na to, co ma mysleć, moje opowiadanie wiecznie niegotowe na to, co ma opowiadać, nie jestem gotowy na tę opowieść. Ten ciągły lęk przed rozstrzygnięciem, przed działaniem, przed życiem sprawia, że żyjąc, udaję życie, żyję obok siebie, wyobrażając sobie tylko jak kiedyś, w przyszłości, będę żył życiem prawdziwym, będę opowiadał zgrabnie skrojone historie, będę znajdował właściwe słowa i tonacje. I tak od lat śledzę siebie samego z ubocza, z ukrycia, widząc, że ten prawdziwy ja, ja, którym chciałbym być, jest zawsze o kilka kroków przede mną. Widzę go znikającego za kolejnym zakrętem, kiedy sam dopadam tego zakrętu, spostrzegam go zanurzającego się w czeluść jakiejś bramy, potem zamykającego za soba drzwi. A ja stoję z zadyszką na schodach, zmęczony pogonią, z zadyszką od tego ciągłego pośpiechu, stoję tak, oddychając ciężko i znów zostaję w tyle, z zadyszką. Ja nie jestem, mnie nie ma, ja dopiero będę.

More often than not- Life moves really fast! It's only for you to pause and breathe! Sadly, none else can do that for you!

Most of us are not raised to actively encounter our destiny. We may not know that we have one. As children, we are seldom told we have a place in life that is uniquely ours alone. Instead, we are encouraged to believe that our life should somehow fulfill the expectations of others, that we will (or should) find our satisfactions as they have found theirs. Rather than being taugh to ask ourselves who we are, we are schooled to ask others. We are, in effect, trained to listen to others' versions of ourselves. We are brought up in our life as told to us by someone else! When we survey our lives, seeking to fulfill our creativity, we often see we had a dream that went glimmering because we believed, and those around us believed, that the dream was beyond our reach. Many of us would have been, or at least might have been, done, tried something, if... If we had known who we really were.

Most people play the role that belongs to someone else

Most people's identities were important to them, something they wouldn't shed. It was proud, it was timid, it was laudable, it was stupid. It stuck people with dumb friends and crummy marriages. Trapped them in dead towns and murderous neighborhoods. It manufactured tradition from the uninterrupted drudgery of successive generations. It transformed ignorant belief into folklore, and ignorance itself into defiance. Identity was a trap.

Mothers who live vicariously through the success of their children or husband need to find their own identity. While it is wonderful to see your children and husband become successful, what is even more effective is to lead and inspire through the example of your own successes. - Strong by Kailin Gow

Mother Wolf, you called yourself. What does a wolf teach her pups but teeth and hunger? You didn't make me in your image. You made me into something worse. I have to know what that is.

Multiple factors play into the narrative of what it now means to be a man like, the shift in societal expectations of the role of men and women, our culture’s relentless drumbeat that tells us our biggest ambition should be the pursuit of a safe and comfortable and convenient lifestyle, the rise of soul-sucking habits like video games and porn, the devaluing of marriage and sex, a general, gradual, steady, relentless lowering of the bar of what it really means to be a man.

My best works are for me. Not for the world.

My discontent has accumulated over the past months, searching for a leak in the dam I’ve constructed to separate my true feelings from the situation closing in around me.

My face is my identity. No one will cover it. I’m proud of my face. If my face bothers you, don’t look. Turn your own face away, take your eyes off me. If you are seduced by merely looking at my face, that is your problem. Do not tell me to cover it. You cannot punish me simply because you cannot control yourself.

My feeling is that if your identity is not just "Homo sapiens" at this point, you have a problem, and it's a problem for the rest of us. And so we have to outgrow that problem. Now, it's perfectly understandable that people identify with a smaller tribe, and they're Americans, or they're Republicans, or they're black, or they're Jewish, or whatever it is. But the end-game for a global civilization has got to be that we take all of that more and more lightly, so that at a certain point, we only do it for fun. It's just a game. Like I'm a Yankees fan, you're a Red Sox fan, we're gonna pretend to hate each other, but we do it because it's fun. And if it's not just fun, it's fucking pathological.

My identity as Jewish cannot be reduced to a religious affiliation. Professor Said quoted Gramsci, an author that I’m familiar with, that, and I quote, ‘to know thyself is to understand that we are a product of the historical process to date which has deposited an infinity of traces, without leaving an inventory’. Let’s apply this pithy observation to Jewish identity. While it is tempting to equate Judaism with Jewishness, I submit to you that my identity as someone who is Jewish is far more complex than my religious affiliation. The collective inventory of the Jewish people rests on my shoulders. This inventory shapes and defines my understanding of what it means to be Jewish. The narrative of my people is a story of extraordinary achievement as well as unimaginable horror. For millennia, the Jewish people have left their fate in the hands of others. Our history is filled with extraordinary achievements as well as unimaginable violence. Our centuries-long Diaspora defined our existential identity in ways that cannot be reduced to simple labels. It was the portability of our religion that bound us together as a people, but it was our struggle to fit in; to be accepted that identified us as unique. Despite the fact that we excelled academically, professionally, industrially, we were never looked upon as anything other than Jewish. Professor Said in his book, Orientalism, examined how Europe looked upon the Orient as a dehumanized sea of amorphous otherness. If we accept this point of view, then my question is: How do you explain Western attitudes towards the Jews? We have always been a convenient object of hatred and violent retribution whenever it became convenient. If Europe reduced the Orient to an essentialist other, to borrow Professor Said’s eloquent language, then how do we explain the dehumanizing treatment of Jews who lived in the heart of Europe? We did not live in a distant, exotic land where the West had discursive power over us. We thought of ourselves as assimilated. We studied Western philosophy, literature, music, and internalized the same culture as our dominant Christian brethren. Despite our contribution to every conceivable field of human endeavor, we were never fully accepted as equals. On the contrary, we were always the first to be blamed for the ills of Western Europe. Two hundred thousand Jews were forcibly removed from Spain in 1492 and thousands more were forcibly converted to Christianity in Portugal four years later. By the time we get to the Holocaust, our worst fears were realized. Jewish history and consciousness will be dominated by the traumatic memories of this unspeakable event. No people in history have undergone an experience of such violence and depth. Israel’s obsession with physical security; the sharp Jewish reaction to movements of discrimination and prejudice; an intoxicated awareness of life, not as something to be taken for granted but as a treasure to be fostered and nourished with eager vitality, a residual distrust of what lies beyond the Jewish wall, a mystical belief in the undying forces of Jewish history, which ensure survival when all appears lost; all these, together with the intimacy of more personal pains and agonies, are the legacy which the Holocaust transmits to the generation of Jews who have grown up under its shadow. -Fictional debate between Edward Said and Abba Eban.

My identity rests solely on my two most precious masterpieces; my daughters.

My mother once said, 'If you come across a man with more than one personality, you can be sure he's looking for himself in one of them, because he has no character.' But I think she was wrong

My identity is not it, which given by the community. my identity is my natural mask.

My identity is simply a many-dimensional painting © Wolfstuff

My mother said the bizarre name Raccoona had surely been inspired, at least on a subliminal level, by the masks raccoons don't wear but simply have - the ones given them by nature..... [S]he pointed out that Le Guin had suspected all along that Raccoona and Tiptree were two authors that came from the same source, but in a letter to Alice she wrote that she preferred Tiptree to Raccoona: 'Raccoona, I think, has less control, thus less wit and power.' Le Guin, Mother said, had understood something deep. 'When you take on a male persona, something happens.' When I asked her what that was, she sat back in her chair, waved her arm, and smiled. 'You get to be the father.

My name is Jeff Witherspork. I always thought I was the only one.

My identity is not defined by the geographical location of my birth, neither by my race. It is defined by the will of God for my life.

My identity is not up for Debate. My whole self is not an negotiation.

My name is not Mara Dyer, but my lawyer told me I had to choose something. A pseudonym. A nom de plume, for all of us studying for the SATs. I know that having a fake name is strange, but trust me—it’s the most normal thing about my life right now. Even telling you this much probably isn’t smart. But without my big mouth, no one would know that a seventeen-year-old who likes Death Cab for Cutie was responsible for the murders. No one would know that somewhere out there is a B student with a body count. And it’s important that you know, so you’re not next.

[My parents] deeply identified themselves as Jews for historical, genealogical, social reasons, and family reasons and community reasons. They powerfully identified as Jews. But theologically, I wonder. I wonder, really. I don't know.

My sadness is beautiful. It infuses everything I do. It is at the core of my identity and always has been, just as happiness is in some people. I refuse to be told that it's a flaw. I will not mute it with medications for the sake of society. I will hold it close to me and celebrate it rightfully while the rest of the world fails to see it for what it is and it will be their loss.

My royal daughter," Ma had singsonged, "none of us is just one thing. Life is a process of learning to recognize our many faces.

My places were emotional, primarily. I wrote of locales in which I had lived, or in which I imagined I could live, but the topography was primal and sexual and terminal. It bore no distinct architecture or design or dialect. It was merely human and in peril, which is to say universal. But on Royal and Coliseum and Vista--streets I cannot relinquish--I found my places and I dreamed a narrative. Can I go there and find it again?"--Tennessee Williams

My thoughts, I think, will soon be sound. My mind, I hope, will soon be found.

Naming can satisfy a need, it can shorten a conversation that otherwise might go on for hours.

Naming something beautiful made it so. I'd seen this in the way the church spoke of marriage as a sacred institution and in the one man plus one woman bumper stickers people sported on their vehicles. The same ones my father would hand to any customer passing through his dealership service department. Naming something ugly had a similar effect. The sound of my mother's vomiting the night she drove me home had taught me this lesson better than anything else ever had. I was gay, had been named as such, a fact that once ingested had to be immediately expelled.

My world foreshortened, flattening into a credit card. Seen head on, things seemed merely skewed, but from the side the view was virtually meaningless--a one-dimensional wafer. Everything about me may have been crammed in there, but it was only plastic. Indecipherable except to some machine.

Name and form are simply illusions of separation. Love doesn’t make us blind; rather, it erases the illusions so we can see clearly.

My younger self had come back to shock my older self with what that self had been, or was, or was sometimes capable of being. And only recently I’d been going on about how the witnesses to our lives decrease, and with them our essential corroboration. Now I had some all too unwelcome corroboration of what I was, or had been.

My world today is raw, it is a world of great vital difficulty. Because, more than a star, today I want the thick and black root of the stars, I want the source that always seems dirty, and is dirty, and that is always incomprehensible. It is with pain that I bid farewell even to the beauty of a child - I want the adult who is more primitive and ugly and drier and more difficult, and who became a child-seed that cannot be broken between the teeth.

Né quelque part où il ne fallait pas, j’ai voulu en partir ; réclamant le statut de réfugié, j’ai dégringolé d’identité en identité, migrant, mendiant, illégal, sans-papiers, sans-droits, sans-travail ; le seul vocable qui me définit désormais est clandestin.

My mother's journals are a shadow play with mine. I am a woman wedded to words. Words cast a shadow. Without a shadow there is no depth. Without a shadow there is no substance. If we have no shadow, it means we are invisible. As long as I have a shadow, I am alive.

Nobody can change who he is except for himself, not any saint ritual, not an ignorant, terrified town, not a night spent in the forest, not a dress or a kiss.

Never forget what you are.

New Orleans, city of roaches, city of decay, city of our family, and of happy, happy people.

No city is one city, as no one mind is altogether and only itself. A woman is many women, a man is many men, a city is many cities—not in sequence, but all at once.

No matter the nature of your individuality, you can nurture a better identity and have a mature positively rewarding life.

No, my life is not this precipitous hour through which you see me passing at a run.