Prove Yourself Quotes

“We want to prove things, in life, more than we want to disprove them. We want to believe.”
― V.E. Schwab

“One thing I have learned from many years of watching my father is that some people, the best ones, are motivated more by the chance to prove themselves than by a command to serve. It is the work itself that calls them onward, especially if they believe they are the only ones who can do it.”
― Rae Carson, The Shadow Cats

“What is the best thing about people doubting your potential?
The pleasure of proving them wrong.”
― Ameya Agrawal

“The thousand times that he had proved it meant nothing. Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

“The same thing as you, the same as she. The same as anyone who has ever been doubted or told to go away. To prove myself better.”
― Matthew Pearl, The Last Bookaneer

“After a certain point you quit trying to prove yourself to anyone and you simply live in the way that makes you happy.”
― Alan Cohen

“The sultan had proven himself on the battlefield back when he was crown prince he'd earned the people's love and reverence before he'd ever taken the throne. Meanwhile, as much as Jasmine had longed to leave the palace gates, in all her eighteen years she'd barely been allowed outside. The comparisons were inevitable, and yet impossible for her to match.
I'll have to find my own way, Jasmine realized as she gazed out the crowd. To turn my differences into strengths and prove myself a true leader.
Maybe she too could be a diamond in the rough.”
― Alexandra Monir, Realm of Wonders

“Should he tell him about the best things he'd ever eaten, the detail of their component parts? Or was that cheating? The best things, after all, weren't things that he had technically eaten. He'd only tasted them secondhand; they weren't animal or vegetable or mineral, but memory--- comestible desires, the fantasy food porn of anonymous ghosts. To describe those to the chef would be a kind of lie.
The other option--- the honest option--- was to just let it go, to slink back and confirm this Wüsthof toolbag's cutting observations about his intentions, his experience, and his palate.
"What's the matter?" Beauchêne prompted. "Can't decide between a Big Mac and a Whopper?"
Something inside Kostya, deep in his gut, lunged. He could take the digs about being unqualified and a liar and even a bad cook--- all those things were true--- but he couldn't let this guy insult his taste buds. His tongue was special. It was maybe the only special thing about him.
"Nevermind. I can see that we're not going to---"
"Duck." Kostya spat it at him like another four-letter word. "Duck ragout. It had this thick sauce, cinnamon cognac. A demi-glace, I think."
Kostya closed his eyes, remembering where the aftertaste had happened, trying to reincarnate it. He'd been on the sidewalk outside his mother's apartment two New Years' ago, pacing around and nursing tea that had gone cold, delaying the inevitable argument about how he was living his life when it had hit him.
"The onions were sliced so thin they fell apart to almost nothing in the stew. And these dried fruits that reconstituted in the duck fat--- peaches and apricots and plums and cherries--- they exploded my teeth like tapioca pearls."
Kostya's eyes were still closed, but the stony silence from Beauchêne invited him to keep going.
"And a couple years ago, there was this coconut curry and Kaffir lime fried chicken."
That one happened to him at a Gristedes. He'd been in the refrigerated section, his fingers closing around the handle of a gallon of milk.
"The skin was so crispy, paper-thin, covered in these tiny, burnt coconut shavings and desiccated slivers of zest, and underneath, the chicken was so moist. The juices dribbled down my chin."
He'd invented that last part for effect, and it seemed to be working. Kostya could feel the air change around him, sizzling. He thought he heard the chef swallow.
"I have to say, I wasn't expecting---"
"I once had young goat," Kostya cut him off, his eyes squeezing tight in focus. "The whole thing was fire-roasted, charred, the meat brined and rubbed with garlic, thyme, rosemary. Hand-crushed juniper."
This one had choked him awake one morning in bed a few months prior, he'd drooled so much he nearly drowned in his own spit.
"It fell apart in my mouth. Every bite, I got a little of the ash from the fire pit, the grit of the sand, the scent of pine from the dried needles on the lumber burned to cook the thing."
"Who are you?" the chef wondered aloud.”
― Daria Lavelle, Aftertaste