Sadness is more or less like a head cold - with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.
Barbara KingsolverRead
I'm not pretending to be ingenuous; I know what I'm doing.
Interpretation
The speaker acknowledges their awareness and deliberate action, rejecting false innocence.
In this quote, Barbara Kingsolver expresses a sense of self-awareness and honesty about one's intentions. By stating that she is not pretending to be ingenuous, she highlights the importance of recognizing one's own actions and motivations, implying that true wisdom comes from understanding oneself and the choices one makes, rather than hiding behind a faΓ§ade of innocence or ignorance.
In practice
In a personal reflection blog post about self-awareness.
Sadness is more or less like a head cold - with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer.
Children can be your heartache. But that doesn't matter, you have to go on and have them . . . it works out.
I'm of a fearsome mind to throw my arms around every living librarian who crosses my path, on behalf of the souls they never knew they saved.
I did it to win love, and to prove myself capable. Not to move mountains. In my opinions, mountains don't move. They only look changed when you look down on them from great height.
Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.
Empathy is really the opposite of spiritual meanness. It's the capacity to understand that every war is both won and lost. And that someone else's pain is as meaningful as your own.
The Great Vessel takes long to complete.
We'd all do well to start over again, preferably with kindergarten.
I was lucky to learn early in life that you need money for food and shelter, but there's no ambition in having money in the bank for the sake of it!
I don't guess. I think. I ponder. I deduce. Then I decide. But I never guess.
What has influenced my life more than any other single thing has been my stammer. Had I not stammered I would probably... have gone to Cambridge as my brothers did, perhaps have become a don and every now and then published a dreary book about French literature.
Our abode in this world is transitory, our life therein is but a loan, our breaths are numbered and our indolence is manifest.
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