Quotes About Consciousness

One day, as he slept in a cave, he dreamed that he saw his own body sleeping. He came out of the cave on the night of a new moon. The sky was clear, and he could see millions of stars. Then something happened inside of him that transformed his life forever. He looked at his hands, he felt his body, and he heard his own voice say, "I am made of light; I am made of stars.

Today I will be impeccable with my word, I will not take anything personally, I will not make any assumptions, and I am going to do my best.

Our dreams are not material energy either, but we know they exist.

The mind can also talk and listen to itself. The mind is divided as your body is divided. Just as you can say, "I have one hand, and I can shake my other hand and feel the other hand," the mind can talk to itself. Part of the mind is speaking, and the other part is listening. It is a big problem when a thousand parts of your mind are all speaking at the same time. This is called a mitote, remember?

Personal freedom comes from embodying intent, love, and gratitude... this is the mastery of life.

We only see what we want to see, and hear what we want to hear. We don't perceive things the way they are. We have the habit of dreaming with no basis in reality.

Es fácil vivir con los ojos cerrados, interpretando mal todo lo que se ve…. – John Lennon

Imagine that every single time others gossip to you, they insert a computer virus into your mind, causing you to think a little less clearly every time.

Far as I can see, we mostly exist as *ideas* in each other's heads. The way *you* see me. The way my *boss* sees me. The way the *waitress* at Lindy's sees me.

Our words create us, from one moment to the next. When you lie, it's that act of self-creation that's sabotaged and corrupted. Lucifer, Book 3, preface

Far as I can see, we mostly exist as *ideas* in each other's heads. The way *you* see me. The way my *boss* sees me. The way the *waitress* at Lindy's sees me. Skins on an *onion*, right? Except that's all there is to us. The *skins*.

evict oneself from the realm of reality.

For the spectator does not see space, he sees the objects and events; he does not perceive the coordinates with the same cyclopean eye of the camera. With his entire body, desires, and fantasies, he perceives the existential dimensions by which the world is organized.

All the words he used in the beginning were gutter words. He heard them and stored them in his brain. Now, as I walk in the street, I look at dogs with secret horror. WHo knows what is hidden in their heads?

Tout à coup on perd pied dans les ténèbres fangeuses du sommeil, mais un tressaillement, et on refait surface aussitôt.

We pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. We are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. Only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has.

The moment someone keeps an eye on what we do, we involuntarily make allowances for that eye, and nothing we do is truthful. Having a public, keeping a public in mind, means living in lies…

Living, there is no happiness in that. Living: carrying one's painful self through the world. But being, being is happiness. Being: Becoming a fountain, a fountain on which the universe falls like warm rain.

Yes, if you're looking for infinity, just close your eyes!

The degree of slowness is directionally proportional to the intensity of memory. The degree of speed is directionally proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

This was exactly what the girl had most dreaded all her life and had scrupulously avoided until now: lovemaking without emotion or love. She knew that she had crossed the forbidden boundary, but she proceeded across it without objections and as a full participant; only somewhere, far off in a corner of her consciousness, did she feel horror at the thought that she had never known such pleasure, never so much pleasure as at this moment--beyond that boundary.

I think, therefore I am' is the statement of an intellectual who underrates toothaches.

We can reproach ourselves for some action, for a remark, but not for a feeling, quite simply because we have no control at all over it.

All novels . . . are concerned with the enigma of the self. As soon as you create an imaginary being, a character, you are automatically confronted by the question: what is the self? How can it be grasped?