A Quote by George Orwell

Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull. — © George Orwell
Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.
Always eyes watching you and the voice enveloping you. Asleep or awake, indoors or out of doors, in the bath or bed- no escape. Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters in your skull.
I learned capacity for self-reflection very early, finding it through interior monologues that books are so good at and that visual media is so bad at because it's so boring - nothing's happening. In a book, you can be inside the narrator's head for 50 pages, and nothing needs to happen. Then you learn to be inside your own head without something needing to happen. It's a very good antidote to a crazy, restless, "what's next?" culture - that you can just be in your own head and nothing is happening except that this is a rich place. I love that.
Nothing has to happen immediately, this minute, or right now. It's okay to pause for just a moment. Just take a breath. Then go quietly inside. Ask life itself to lead you to your best outcome. There's nothing you have to do, really, except get out of your own way.
Study nothing except in the knowledge that you already knew it. Worship nothing except in adoration of your true self. And fear nothing except in the certainty that you are your enemy's begetter and its only hope of healing.
?"Nothing binds you except your thoughts; nothing limits you except your fear; and nothing controls you except your beliefs.
be gl?d of life, bec?use it gives you the ch?nce to love ?nd to work ?nd to pl?y ?nd to look up ?t the st?rs; to be s?tisfied with your posessions, to despise nothing in the world except f?lsehood ?nd me?nness ?nd to fe?r nothing except cow?rdice; to be governed by your ?dmir?tions r?ther th?n by your disgusts, to covet nothing th?t is your neighbour's except his kindness of he?rt ?nd gentleness of m?nners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends and to spend ?s much time ?s you c?n with body ?nd with spirit.
My accident - 15 centimetres right and nothing would have happened; 10 centimetres left and I would not be here.
I had hardly expected so dolichocephalic a skull or such well-marked supra-orbital development. Would you have any objection to my running my finger along your parietal fissure? A cast of your skull, sir, until the original is available, would be an ornament to any anthropological museum. It is not my intention to be fulsome, but I confess that I covet your skull.
The brain is suspended in a kind of thick jelly inside the skull, and a helmet can't keep it from sloshing around. If you hit your head hard enough, the brain goes bashing against the walls of the skull.
Live as though you don't exist; like you are two eyeballs floating in space with nothing behind them. No brain attached. Not even hair - Nothing.There is a place inside your own heart, inside your own being that knows the kind of seemingly foolish things I speak and it is totally thrilled to be reminded of this infinite expanse and infinite joy that it is. Find this place.
Think for yourself. Unplug yourself from follow-the-follower groupthink, and virtually ignore what everyone else in your industry is saying (except the ones everyone agrees is crazy). Do your own research, draw your own conclusions, set your own course, and stick to your guns. When you're just starting out, people will tell you you're wrong. After you've blown past them, they'll tell you you're crazy. A few years after that, they'll (privately) ask you to mentor them.
Your own mind is a sacred enclosure into which nothing harmful can enter except by your permission.
What's clarity like? Try to remember that funny feeling inside your head when you had math problems too difficult to solve: the faint buzzing noise in your ears, a heaviness on both sides of your skull, and the sensation that your brain is twitching inside your cranium like a fish on the beach. This is the opposite sensation of clarity. Yet for many people of my era, as they aged, this sensation became the dominant sensation of their lives. It was as though day-to-day twentieth century living had become an unsolvable algebraic equation.
You are the architect of your own destiny; you are the master of your own fate; you are behind the steering wheel of your life. There are no limitations to what you can do, have, or be. Except the limitations you place on yourself by your own thinking.
You can tell nothing from a man's appearance, nothing except the depths of your own prejudice.
Can you understand your own dreams, which arise with mushrooms' rank richness in the night-forests within your skull?
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