Carrie Fisher Quotes

There are a couple of reasons why I take comfort in being able to put all this in my own vernacular and present it to you. For one thing, because then I'm not completely alone with it. And for another, it gives me a sense of being in control of the craziness. Now this is a delusion, but it's MY delusion and I'm sticking with it. It's sort of like: I have problems but problems don't have me.

I am a very discreet human when it comes to other people.

--when men approach me to let me know that I was their first love, lets just say I have mixed feelings. Why did all these men find it so easy to be in love with me then and so complex to be in love with me now?

I went to a doctor and told him I felt normal on acid, that I was a light bulb in a world of moths. That is what the manic state is like.

To make him important in one's life requires an overactive imagination. Unfortunately, mine never knows when to quit.

All I can say is that when millions of plastic dolls of you are being sold each day and an equal number of teenage boys are masturbating over you each night, it's bound to do something screwy to your psyche.

You were very serious," her grandmother continued. "You had these big brown eyes and you were always going, 'What's that? What's that?' You wondered what everything was. You would frown and point a lot, like a conductor looking for your orchestra. You always seemed very busy, like you were between appointments all the time, but you were just a little child.

I don't hate hardly ever, and when I love, I love for miles and miles. A love so big it should either be outlawed or it should have a capital and its own currency.

Anyway, I suppose in part I'm telling this story now because I want all of you - and I do mean all - to know that I wasn't always a somewhat-overweight woman without an upper lip to her name who can occasionally be found sleeping behind her face and always thinking in her mouth.

When we talk it's not merely idle chatter
We discuss things that really don't matter
We talk of love and god and pain
To life's never-ending song
We add yet one more refrain
And as the pace gets more and more frantic
The words get more and more pedantic
We leave no sophistry unturned
As our rhetoric becomes more intense
Using our very large vocabularies
To disguise our very common sense.
The words get longer and the plot gets thinner
Another discourse to discuss at dinner
There is no feeling we can't analyze
Seizing each chance to intellectualize
Talking in the past and present tense
We're making a lot more noise
And a lot less sense.

I liked being Princess Leia. Or Princess Leia's being me. Over time I thought that we'd melded into one. I don't think you could think of Leia without my lurking in that thought somewhere.

I want someone to love and treasure and overwhelm.

Her other boyfriend before me was a druggie, too. I don't mean... he was a druggie. I like drugs, but he was a druggie . It's like she just goes out with people who take drugs so she can pick on them. Joan of Narc, patron saint of the addict. - Alex

Take your broken heart and make it to the heart.

Remember what it was like when you'd be getting ready to jump rope... two people were turning it, and you were waiting for exactly the right moment to jump in? I feel like that all the time.

I feel like what I look like is government issue, it's pretty much out of my hands. But I invent the stuff I say. That's me.

I always kept a diary - not a diary like, 'Dear Diary, we got up at 5 A.M., and I wore the weird hair again and that white dress! Hi-yeee!' I'd just write.

Recently I learned this amazing thing. If you become addicted to pain killers, it can go very, very wrong for you. Who knew?

Bipolar disorder can be a great teacher. It's a challenge, but it can set you up to be able to do almost anything else in your life.

Let's say something happens, and from a certain slant maybe it's tragic, even a little bit shocking. Then time passes and you go to the funny slant, and now that very same thing can no longer do you any harm.

BOTH HANDS, ONE HEART, TWO MOODS, AND A HEAD

Guys are great before you know who they are,' said Lucy. 'They're great when you're still with who they might be.

And my weight, as everyone at Lucasland can recall, was, and remains, of the "any kind" variety.

That's the way it works in movies. Something happens that has an impact on someone's life, and based on that impact, his life shifts course. Well, that's not how it happens in life. Something has an impact on you, and then your life stays the same, and you think, 'Well, what about the impact?' You have epiphanies all the time. They just don't have any effect.

Sometimes I'm afraid I'm happy, but because I expect it to be something else, I question the experience. So now, when in doubt," she shrugged with true bravado, "I'll assume I'm happy.

You needn't ever make mountains out of molehills again. You have misjudged yourself. You are not who you think you are.

I was born on October 21, 1956 in Burbank, California. My father, Eddie Fisher, was a famous singer. My mother, Debbie Reynolds, was a movie star. Her best-known role was in 'Singin' In The Rain.'

I have a chemical imbalance that, in its most extreme state, will lead me to a mental hospital.

You knew how humiliating that is as an experience for celebrities to be less of a celebrity. There's no class to adjust to being less famous, and you don't think you have to worry about it. But you do.

I can't forget that stupid, fucking hologram speech. THAT'S why I did dope.

My life is like a lone, forgotten Q-Tip in the second-to-last drawer.

I'm in denial in its lesser state. It will take me a second. People around me will notice my mania first. And, my depression.

I knew my name. So I let him know I knew it. 'Yeah,' I said in a voice very like mine. Mine but hollow, mine but it didn't matter because my stomach had swung into action.

I really love the internet. They say chat-rooms are the trailer park of the internet but I find it amazing.

The world was his shower and he used women for soap.

The hairstyle that was chosen would impact how everyone - every filmgoing human - would envision me for the rest of my life. (And probably even beyond - it's hard to imagine any TV obituary not using a photo of that cute little round-faced girl with goofy buns on either side of her inexperienced head.)

What's the riddle? Me talking so much And saying so little

For Star Wars, they had me tape down my breasts because there are no breasts in space. I have some. I have two.

No motive is pure. No one is good or bad-but a hearty mix of both. And sometimes life actually gives to you by taking away.

I think that the truth is a really stern taskmistress.

The world of manic depression is a world of bad judgment calls.

Screw beauty, it's superficial anyway, and my other attributes matter way more than my appearance.

I have never been much at nonverbal communication. Additionally, I don't have much of an attention span, and what I lack in patience I make up for in ambivalence and an inability to sleep.

He's a very strange guy, my father. I can't get mad at him because he's so adorable.

She wanted so to be tranquil, to be someone who took walks in the late-afternoon sun, listening to the birds and crickets and feeling the whole world breathe. Instead, she lived in her head like a madwoman locked in a tower, hearing the wind howling through her hair and waiting for someone to come and rescue her from feeling things so deeply that her bones burned. She had plenty of evidence that she had a good life. She just couldn't feel the life she had. It was as though she had cancer of the perspective.

I Googled myself without lubricant. I don't recommend it.

I have been in 'Star Wars' since I was 20. And they're not just doing some goofy sequel, like, to service the hunger of it. It actually has been thought out and it has integrity and they took it seriously, which they didn't have to do, you know? It's hard to do, given the appetite and the angles from which everybody's coming at it.

Take your broken heart, make it into art.

Now I say I'm a diarist with an explanation I'll get back to you on. Someday I may try and write in memoir form.

I watched my parents' fame diminish - as I was getting more conscious, their celebrity was going back down the mountain.

I told him about the Oedipal thing, about my father leaving when I was very young so I knew how to pine for men, but not how to love them. So he said, 'You'd probably would have been perfect for somebody in World War Two. You'd meet him and then he would get shipped overseas.' And I said, 'Maybe on our date I could drop you off and you could enlist,' and he said he would just got out and rent a uniform. So he was very funny.

If I'd known about all the masturbating I would generate - well, that would've been extraordinarily weird from many angles and I'm glad it didn't come up, as it were.

Running for office is the least aerobic of the socially interactive sports ...

Leia follows me like a vague smell.

I was barely old enough to vote but I could easily enlist in the army, and I enlisted into the army of him.

Some of the more sought-after signers are, in no particular order, presidents, military heroes, sports icons, actors, singers, artists, religious and social leaders, scientists, astronauts, authors, and Kardashians.

I know how closely most of us tend to hold on to whatever cache of patience we've managed to amass over a lifetime and I appreciate your squandering some of your cherished stash here.

If you have a penis and a job, being handsome is a fantastic bonus but hardly a necessity.

I didn't realize I actually had post-traumatic stress disorder at the time, but why would I think I had that? Anyway, how would I know which was post-traumatic stress, which is addiction, which is bipolar, which is Libra?

I have a mess in my head sometimes, and there's something very satisfying about putting it into words. Certainly it's not something that you're in charge of, necessarily, but writing about it, putting it into your words, can be a very powerful experience.

You can't find any true closeness in Hollywood, because everybody does the fake closeness so well.

I was born into big celebrity. It could only diminish.

In my opinion, a problem derails your life and an inconvenience is not being able to get a nice seat on the un-derailed train.

So it stood to reason that if I could disappoint my own father - if I couldn't get my own father to love me enough to stick around or, God forbid, visit more often than one day a year - how was I ever going to get a man who didn't have to love me like daddies were supposed to? (Hey,

But I did - I did want to write a book, and I knew what the first line would be: "Maybe I shouldn't have given the guy who pumped my stomach my phone number, but he'll never call me anyway. No one will ever call me again." And this was based on a true thing. See, the doctor that pumped my stomach sent me flowers. With a note that read: "I can tell that you are a very warm and sensitive person." All that from the contents of my stomach! I was tempted to marry him so I could tell people how we met.

I don't want life to imitate art. I want life to BE art.

I'm afraid that if I stop writing I'll stop thinking and start feeling.

So Pat showed me a variety of exotic looks - from Russian princesses to Swedish maids. I looked at the images, slightly alarmed. There was no Lady Gaga to guide me.

A lot of the time, I'm just smart enough to be unhappy.

Sometimes she'd just walk around the city alone. Watch the people, smell the food, the bus exhaust, the smoke coming up through the grating. She'd feel protected somehow, found a sense of belonging in the hectic sprawl. And the next minute she'd feel like the one who couldn't break the code, hit the right stride, catch the wave. Potholes and traffic and bums, oh my. With all the honking and the hum of movement, the living, breathing blur of noise gently pressing in on her, the great purr of the Metropolitan Cat turning into a dull roar. She'd feel so silent on the inside, her head as quiet as a stretch of sand, a cathedral silently worshipping the life that was all around her, storing it up for later when she needed some 'too much' to draw upon.

I'm in a business where the only thing that matters is weight and appearance. That is so messed up. They might as well say 'Get younger,' because that's how easy it is.

Not that writing on my notepads managed to actually empty my mind - though some would argue - but I was grateful to relieve the overflow.

Mothers are great. They outlast everything. But when they're bad, they're the worst thing that can happen.

Writing is a very calming thing for me.

I not only feel better about myself because these people are also fucked up (and I guess this gives us a sense of community), but I feel better because look how much these fellow fuckups managed to accomplish!

I mean, there's a lot of other things I could do for money. I could sell autographed ECT machines or rhinestoned mood stabilizers or even Star Wars scented laxatives. But do I do that? Do I do a commercial on television to (attempt to) sell a medication while running around some random backyard with some rented golden retriever laughing and looking cured and totally amazed to be so worry-free while a voice comes on and says, "Reginol is not recommended for wayward fish or Libras with dementia. If you notice swelling in your femur or notice a subtle beam of backlight glowing northward from your anus or the anus of someone you went to school with, call your doctor immediately as this could be a symptom of hydrocephalus that could lead to roughhousing and misguided bloat. Reginol is not recommended for pregnant Nazis or yodelers over seventy. Reginol does not protect you from unpopularity or autism . . . " All

As you get older, the pickings get slimmer, but the people don't.

I was born imagining myself with an apron on, with pies cooling on the window sill and babies crying upstairs. I thought that all that stuff would somehow anchor me to the planet, that it was the weight I needed to keep from just flying off into space.

Put it into words - you can't feel words. I think that if I could give a name to what I feel it would go away. Find the word that describes the feeling and say it over and over until it's merely a sound.

I get lots of awards for being mentally ill. Apparently, I am better at being mentally ill than almost anything else I've ever done. Seriously - I have a shelf of awards for being bipolar.

I love the idea of God, but it's not stylistically in keeping with the way I function. I would describe myself as an enthusiastic agnostic who would be happy to be shown that there is a God. I can see that people who believe in God are happier ... But I doubt.

I loved him and he allowed it

If she could live through that, from now on, she could live through anything - even love. But maybe instead of happily ever after--or maybe in addition to it--this time it would be everything. Everything ever after. And when they asked her if she was happy, this time she'd answer, "Among other things."
The way Suzanne saw it was that most things were ultimately manageable if you went at them the right way, even if they started out all wrong and hopeless and wrapped so tight around you that you just can't breathe. Even the things you never thought you could get over or get through, those hurts you knew would never heal, those visions that troubled your sleep….All that eventually quieted and ceased to pull at you, if you wanted it to badly enough, if you were willing to outlast your difficulties.

I knew what show business was, which was why I didn't want in on that action. I saw what happens! You get it, and then you lose it.

I am mentally ill. I can say that. I am not ashamed of that. I survived that, I'm still surviving it, but bring it on. Better me than you.

I don't want to be thought of as a survivor because you have to continue getting involved in difficult situations to show off that particular gift, and I'm not interested in doing that anymore.

I wish that I could leave myself alone. I wish that I could finally feel that I punished myself enough. That I deserved time off for all my bad behavior. Let myself off the hook, drag myself off the rack where I am both torturer and torturee.

You know what's funny about death? I mean other than absolutely nothing at all? You'd think we could remember finding out we weren't immortal. Sometimes I see children sobbing airports and I think, Aww. They've just been told.

I quote fictional characters, because I'm a fictional character myself!

I'm fond of kissing. It's part of my job. God sent me down to kiss a lot of people.

The second reason I decided to get ECT is that I was depressed. Profoundly depressed. Part of this could be attributed to my mood disorder, which was, no doubt, probably the source of the emotional intensity. That's what can take simple sadness and turn it into sadness squared.

As we all know, there is no underwear in space.

Heaven's no place for one who thrives on hell.

People adapt to you. Don't worry, you can't alter what they think of you to any great degree, and by the same token what they think of you can't alter you.

You can set up housekeeping on one side of the looking glass or the other--the side that makes big things small or small things big.

And I ultimately not only addressed it, I named my two moods Roy and Pam. Roy is Rollicking Roy, the wild ride of a mood, and Pam is Sediment Pam, who stands on the shore and sobs. (Pam stands for "piss and moan.") One mood is the meal, and the next mood is the check.

If talking were aerobic, I'd be the thinnest person in the world.

It's important to be able to distinguish the difference between a problem and an inconvenience.

Everything grows rounder and wider and weirder, and I sit here in the middle of it all and wonder who in the world you will turn out to be.

You can't find true affection in Hollywood because everyone does the fake affection so well.