Quotes About Reality

I am far from trying to pervert your hopes: life will take care of that. Like everyone else, you will proceed from one forfeiture to the next.

Since it is words that bind us to things, we cannot detach ourselves from things unless we first break with words.

We cherish our anathemas, greedy for what pulverizes us; not for anything would we renounce our own nightmare to which we have assigned as many capital letters as we have known illusions. These illusions have been discredited, like the capital letters, but the nightmare remains, decapitated and naked, and we continue to love it precisely because it is ours and because we do not see what to replace it by.

În afara clipei totul este minciun?.

Over the gate of our cemeteries should be written: "Nothing Is Tragic. Everything Is Unreal.

Maddenin d???nda, her ÅŸey müziktir. Tanr? bile sesli bir halüsinasyondan baÅŸka ÅŸey deÄŸildir.

Reality seems valueless by comparison with the dreams of fevered imaginations; reality is therefore abandoned.

Hence we are the victims of an illusion which leads us to believe we have ourselves produced what has been imposed upon us externally.

Things perceived as real become real in their consequences.

Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.

I am little concerned with beauty or perfection. I don't care for the great centuries. All I care about is life, struggle, intensity.

The past was but the cemetery of our illusions: one simply stubbed one's toes on the gravestones.

Nella ricerca storica non vale la regola che sia la maggioranza a stabilire la verità storica, ma vale soltanto ciò che dalla ricerca e dalla conoscenza dei fatti corrisponde alla realtà storica, come risulta dai documenti. Nessuna presunzione, neppure involontaria, ma solo accertamento dei fatti storici.

I am really here. Yet I know I am not. I am inside something that must be buried in my head. I am layers deep in my own brain.

I have woken up inside one of my own memories. I am really here, yet I know I am not.

I'm wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there: not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it.

Sleep not, dream not; this bright dayWill not, cannot last for aye;Bliss like thine is bought by yearsDark with torment and with tears.

Might it also be that creating narratives around murder allows a measure of comfort? Murder in the abstract is terrifying; in the details, you realise it has nothing to do with you.

People ask if what I've been through has made me afraid and of course, it has. But not of monsters. Only of those who insist they exist.

Lots of people there seemed to be in denial, in absolute denial, of death - everybody's pretending that death doesn't happen in L.A. if you do enough exercise and take enough wheatgrass and have your pill every day, you might not die.

The least veracious man will tell truly the color of his coat, the hour of his dinner, the materials of his shoes.

The most palpable facts, are exactly the contrary to what we should expect.

The worst families are those in which the members never really speak their minds to one another; they maintain an atmosphere of unreality, and every one always lives in an atmosphere of suppressed ill-feeling. It is the same with nations.

Trong nhi?u n?m ròng rã, chúng ta c? tìm h?nh phúc, và nhi?u l?n t??ng ?ã ??t ???c nó ?? h??ng m?t cách lâu b?n. Nh?ng l?n nào ta c?ng th?t v?ng. Sau ?ó, ta l?i ti?p t?c ch?y theo ?o ?nh ?ó nh? tr??c.