Meghan Markle Quotes

I hear so many things about who I am supposed to be I hardly know what to believe. I am willing to tell all, but what Is it? Doubtless all these myths and legends will be straightened out eventually, but It may take years.

I don't really know what my personality is anyway. I don't really have one.

And some looked even more like each other than they did like themselves.

If you ask me to play myself, I will not know what to do. I do not know who or what I am.

Throughout my life, I have grappled with my own identity, who I am. As a young child, I often felt ambivalent about myself, in fact, confused.

I know that I am what I am. But I am not sure what I am.

I feel undefinable actually.

It's hard for people to see you one way, but you're really the other way, so it's kind of like, 'Who am I, who are you?' Sometimes, I confuse even myself.

I don't know what I am. And it's not important.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

I am not a man. I am not a human being inside. I am not that. I don't know what I am, but I am not that.

There are times I can't even figure myself out.

I don't even know what my voice is to this day.

I think my whole identity is formed around not knowing where I'm from. It might even be that I find comfort in that confusion.

Life is not black and white; there is some gray nuance to it.

I am not sultry. I don't know what I am.

I feel like 'Harlem River' was me putting one foot out the door of New York, and 'Still Life' is between Point A and Point B. It's the grey area.

I've never thought of myself in terms of an identity. I'm always baffled when I encounter someone who gives the impression about being confident about a particular defined identity.

I'm not even sure who I really am sometimes.

There is no shame is being ambivalent about almost everything in your life.

Sometimes I feel like a man; sometimes I feel like a child.

I don't even recognize myself sometimes.

Since I’ve known you, you’ve been spinning and spinning and spinning into all these various personas, and none of this self-exploration and experimentation has given you a sense of peace. I’ve known you for six years, intimately for four, and I still have no idea who I’m in love with.

I have an apple that thinks its a pear. And a bun that thinks it’s a cat. And a lettuce that thinks its a lettuce." "It’s a clever lettuce, then." "Hardly," she said with a delicate snort. "Why would anything clever think it’s a lettuce?" "Even if it is a lettuce?" I asked. "Especially then," she said. "Bad enough to be a lettuce. How awful to think you are a lettuce too.

The Self has turned out to mean so many things, to mean them so ambiguously, and to be so wavering in its application, that we do not feel encouraged.