Many recent studies confirm that it is not that uncommon to hear voices and that the majority of those who do are not schizophrenic.
(..)
Talking to oneself is basic to human beings, for we are a linguistic species; the great Russian psychologist Lev Vygotsky thought that “inner speech” was a prerequisite of all voluntary activity. (..) Perhaps there is some sort of physiological barrier or inhibition that normally prevents most of us from “hearing” such inner voices as external. Perhaps that barrier is somehow breached or undeveloped in those who do hear constant voices. Perhaps, however, one should invert the question — and ask why most of us do not hear voices.

//Oliver Sacks, 2012, Hallucinations

‘I never look nice,’ she said. Like he was an idiot.
‘I like the way you look,’ he said. It came out more like an argument than a compliment.
‘That doesn’t mean it’s nice.’ She was whispering, too.
‘Fine then, you look like a hobo.’
‘A hobo?’ Her eyes lit.
‘Worse,’ he said. ‘Like a sad hobo clown.’
‘And you like it?’
‘I love it.’

Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

//Rainbow Rowell, 2013, Eleanor and Park

We tend to overestimate our uniqueness [because we] tend to overestimate everyone’s uniqueness — that is, we tend to think of people as more different from one another than they actually are. Let’s face it: All people are similar in some ways and different in others. (..) Because we spend so much time searching for, attending to, thinking about, and remembering these differences, we tend to overestimate their magnitude and frequency, and thus end up thinking of people as more varied than they actually are.
(..)
Our belief in the variability of others and in the uniqueness of the self is especially powerful when it comes to emotion. Because we can feel our own emotions but must infer the emotions of others by watching their faces and listening to their voices, we often have the impression that others don’t experience the same intensity of emotion that we do, which is why we expect others to recognize our feelings even when we can’t recognize theirs.

//Daniel Gilbert, 2007, Stumbling on Happiness

Even dramatic changes to the appearance of a scene are sometimes overlooked. In an experiment taken straight from the pages of Candid Camera, researchers arranged for a researcher to approach pedestrians on a college campus and ask for directions to a particular building. While the pedestrian and the researcher conferred over the researcher’s map, two construction workers, each holding one end of a large door, rudely cut between them, temporarily obstructing the pedestrian’s view of the researcher. As the construction workers passed, the original researcher crouched down behind the door and walked off with the construction workers, while a new researcher, who had been hiding behind the door all along, took his place and picked up the conversation. The original and substitute researchers were of different heights and builds and had noticeably different voices, haircuts, and clothing. You would have no trouble telling them apart if they were standing side by side. So what did the Good Samaritans who had stopped to help a lost tourist make of this switcheroo? Not much. In fact, most of the pedestrians failed to notice — failed to notice that the person to whom they were talking had suddenly been transformed into an entirely new individual.

//Daniel Gilbert, 2007, Stumbling on Happiness

vispār, jāuzraksta taču.

tātad, pirms es braucu uz budapeštu, man bija piedāvāti divi konkrēti apgalvojumi par šo vietu: 1)budapešta ir kā vienkārši smukāka rīga, un 2)budapeštā tu jūties mazs, jo viss apkārt ir tik milzīgs. mana pieredze - neviens no tiem man nešķita patiess. ja neskaita izbraucienu uz budapeštas bolderāju (kaut kādu tur padsmito rajōnu tālu no centra; viņi, redz, kā prātīgi cilvēki, vietas nevis dēvē visādos jocīgos nosaukumos, bet vienkārši ir sanumurējuši), tad pilsētā jau nu ir ļoooooooti skaidrs, ka, lai nu kur, bet rīgā es neesmu. un, jā, viss galvenokārt ir liels un ļoti liels (četrstāvu mājas mūsējo sešstāveņu augstumā, sešstāvu - kā deviņstāvenes), arī ielas mēdz būt platākas, bet tas nav tādā nospiedošā veidā, kas liktu man justies mazākai, drīzāk tā, ka ir vienkārši vairāk vietas un plašuma. tā austrōungārijas vēriena sajūta ir visur ļoti klātesoša. milzu skulptūras uz ēkām, jo, nu, kāpēc gan ne; zelta mozaīkas, kur tik nav slinkums; ciku-caku-cakas un apaļi māju stūri, un daudzviet tas viss ir neatjaunots un mazliet noplucis, un tieši tāpēc tik dzīvs, ticams, iederīgs. tas over-the-top greznums visur ir it kā mazliet smieklīgs, bet nešķiet uzspēlēts. ja man pilsēta būtu jāraksturo vienā vārdā, es teiktu - šizīgi. bet tādā ļoti pozitīvā veidā. tur vienkārši ir tik daudz visa kā no visa kā, un kaut kādā mistiskā veidā tas gaužām labi turas kopā. šī laikam ir pirmā kontinentālās eirōpas pilsēta ilgā laikā, par kuru man ir skaidra apziņa, ka vispār es diezgan konkrēti jūtos tā, ka gribu tur aizbraukt vēl. un tam gandrīz nemaz nav sakara ar iespēju glaudīt sliņķi vai aplūkot milzīgu zilu balodi-panku viņu zōodārzā. man vienkārši patīk tās pilsētas sajūta.

gatavot ar vīnu ir ļoti labi. tad ideja "bet kā būtu, ja es plānoto rabarberu pīrāgu pārvērstu par zemesriekstu sviesta sierakūku ar rabarberiem" neapstājas pie "akdievs, tas taču ir perversi" un rezultējas vienkārši satriecošā pārtikas produktā. ne par saldu, ne par skābu, visu var sagaršot, viss ir harmōnijā, ahhhhh.