Quotes About Reality

evict oneself from the realm of reality.

God is the STRUCTURE of Life, not the Narrative.

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.

Ale nie, o nie! ??? kusiciele-mistycy, nie ma na Å›wiecie ?adnych karaibskich mórz i nie pÅ'ywajÄ… po nich odwa?ni do szaleÅ"stwa flibusterowie ani korweta nie rusza za nimi w poÅ›cig, nie Å›ciele siÄ™ ponad falami dym z dziaÅ'. Niczego takiego nie ma i nigdy nie byÅ'o!

And fact is the most stubborn thing in the world.

a fact is the most stubborn thing in the world.

Che cosa sarebbe il tuo bene se non ci fosse il male, e come apparirebbe la terra se non ci fossero le ombre? Le ombre nascono dagli oggetti e dalle persone. Ecco l'ombra della mia spada. Ma ci sono le ombre degli alberi e degli esseri viventi. Non vorrai per caso sbucciare tutto il globo terrestre buttando via tutti gli alberi e tutto ciò che è vivo per godere nella tua fantasia della nuda luce?

But no, no! The seductive mystics are lying. There are no Caribbean Seas in the world, no reckless buccaneers are sailing them, and no corvettes are chasing them, no cannon smoke drifts low over the waves. There is nothing, and there never was! There is only a stunted linden tree out there, and iron fence, and the boulevard beyond it...And ice melting in the bowl, and someone's bovine bloodshot eyes at the next table, and fear, fear...Oh, gods, gods, poison, give me poison!... (67)

How many people, in the beginning of life, think they will finish it as Alexander the Great or Lord Byron, and instead, retain for the whole of their existence, the rank of titulary counsellor?

Sorbi cupa vieÅ£ii. Dar când sorbi, Pe dalbele-i chenare, Din ochii-nchiÅŸi, din ochii orbi, Curg lacrimile-amare. Când de pe ochi, pe-al morÅ£ii prag Smulgi ultima n?fram?, Vezi c? ÅŸi ce Å£i-a fost mai drag Ca v?lul se destram? Åži c? în golu-i aurit Din cupa cea m?iastr? Doar visul nostru l-am sorbit - Ea, nu era a noastr?. (Lermontov - Cupa vieÅ£ii )

Our expectations shape our perceptions; we see what we are looking for.

On the surface, an intelligible lie; underneath, the unintelligible truth.

A mismatched outfit, a slightly defective denture, an exquisite mediocrity of the soul-those are the details that make a woman real, alive. The women you see on posters or in fashion magazines-the ones all the women try to imitate nowadays-how can they be attractive? They have no reality of their own; they're just the sum of a set of abstract rules. They aren't born of human bodies; they hatch ready-made from the computers. ~The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

The emotion of love gives all of us a misleading illusion of knowing the other.

Optimism is the opium of the people.

Youth is terrible: it is a stage trod by children in buskins and a variety of costumes mouthing speeches they've memorized and fanatically believe but only half understand. And history is terrible because it so often ends up a playground for the immature; a playground for the young Nero, a playground for the young Bonaparte, a playground for the easily roused mobs of children whose simulated passions and simplistic poses suddenly metamorphose into a catastrophically real reality.

The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?

There would seem to be nothing more obvious, more tangible and palpable than the present moment. And yet it eludes us completely. All the sadness of life lies in that fact. In the course of a single second, our senses of sight, of hearing, of smell, register (knowingly or not) a swarm of events and a parade of sensations and ideas passes through our head. Each instant represents a little universe, irrevocably forgotten in the next instant.

She was aware that in love even the most passionate idealism will not rid the body's surface of its terrible, basic importance.

But just make someone who has fallen in love listen to his stomach rumble, and the unity of body and soul, that lyrical illusion of the age of science , instantly fades away.

The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.

At what exact moment did the real turn into the unreal, reality into reverie? Where was the border? Where is the border?

It follows, then, that the aesthetic ideal of the categorical agreement with being is a world in which shit is denied and everyone acts as though it did not exist. This aesthetic ideal is called kitsch.

I have to lie, if I don't want to take madmen seriously and become a madman myself