If you have the guts to be yourself, other people'll pay your price.
John UpdikeRead
The essential self is innocent, and when it tastes its own innocence knows that it lives for ever.
Interpretation
The core of our being is pure and innocent, and recognizing this leads to a sense of eternal life.
This quote by John Updike suggests that at our very essence, we possess an innocence that is untainted by the world. When we become aware of this inherent purity within ourselves, we simultaneously grasp the concept of our immortality, not in a physical sense but in the impact and legacy we leave behind, reinforcing the idea that our true self transcends temporal existence.
In practice
In a speech about self-discovery, one might quote this to emphasize the importance of understanding one's true nature.
If you have the guts to be yourself, other people'll pay your price.
Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that's the stuff life is made of. _x000D_ _x000D_ Suspect each moment, for it is a thief, tiptoeing away with more than it brings.
Museums and bookstores should feel, I think, like vacant lots - places where the demands on us are our own demands, where the spirit can find exercise in unsupervised play.
But it is just two lovers, holding hands and in a hurry to reach their car, their locked hands a starfish leaping through the dark.
The reader knows the writer better than he knows himself; but the writer's physical presence is light from a star that has moved on.
To guarantee the individual maximum freedom within a social frame of minimal laws ensures - if not happiness - its hopeful pursuit.
The greatest question of our time is not communism vs. individualism, not Europe vs. America, not even the East vs. the West; it is whether men can bear to live without God.
And there is the headlight, shining far down the track, glinting off the steel rails that, like all parallel lines, will meet in infinity, which is after all where this train is going.
I am lost if I attempt to take count of chronology. When I think over the past, I am like a person whose eyes cannot properly measure distances and is liable to think things extremely remote which on examination prove to be quite near.
Language also encodes our past. We want to know who we are. To know who we are, we have to know who we used to be. Consequently, our literature, written in the past, anchors us in that past.
Nothing human is finally calculable; even to ourselves we are strange.
Places seem to me to have some kind of memory, in that they activate memory in those who look at them.
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