Quotes About Reality

It is fun to be present at the coming true of a dream, even if it is not one's own.

Ez a "most" az egyetlen realitás, amit ismerünk; a már-nem színes semmijét követi, és a jövÅ' abszolút semmijét elÅ'zi meg. Így egészen szó szerinti értelemben mondhatjuk, hogy a tudatos emberi élet mindig csak egy pillanatig tart, mert a saját tudatáramunkra irányuló szándékos figyelem egyetlen pillanatában sem tudhatjuk, hogy követi-e újabb pillanat.

His mind was a turmoil of words and fancies, incomplete fancies and insufficient words, but already he knew that this and only this was the reality of his life.

Es espantoso cuando la vida real de pronto resulta ser un sueño, pero ¡cuánto más espantoso cuando lo que uno ha creído que era un sueño —fluido e irresponsable— de pronto empieza a cuajarse como realidad!

This is reality, this is pure fact - this forest, this moss, your hand, the ladybird on my leg, this cannot be taken away, can it? (it will, it was). This has all come together here, no matter how the paths twisted, and fooled each other, and got fouled up, they inevitably met here!

A soap bubble is as real as a fossil tooth.

Reader! Bruder! What a foolish Hamburg that Hamburg was! Since his supersensitive system was loath to face the actual scene, he thought he could at least enjoy a secret part of it—which reminds one of the tenth or twentieth soldier in the raping queue who throws the girl's black shawl over her white face so as not to see those impossible eyes while taking his military pleasure in the sad, sacked village.

I see again my schoolroom in Vyra, the blue roses of the wallpaper, the open window. Its reflection fills the oval mirror above the leathern couch where my uncle sits, gloating over a tattered book. A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.

One of the functions of all my novels is to prove that the novel in general does not exist.

Just like a man grieving because he has recently lost in his dreams some thing that he had never had in reality, or hoping that tomorrow he would dream that he found it again.

Ruh bir varoluÅŸ biçiminden baÅŸka bir ÅŸey deÄŸildir -sürekli bir durum hiç deÄŸildir-, dalgalar?n? bulur ve izlerseniz her ruh sizinki olabilir. Ölümden sonraki yaÅŸam denen ÅŸey, istediÄŸiniz ruhta, hatta birbirininkinden farks?z azap yüklerinin bilincinde bile olmayan istediÄŸiniz say?da ruhta bilinçle yaÅŸamak yeterliliÄŸidir belki de - baÅŸka bir ÅŸey deÄŸil.

Alas, the objects I had assembled wander away. The young poplar dims and takes off to return where it had been fetched from. The brick wall dissolves. The house draws in its little balconies one by one, then turns, and floats away. Everything floats away. Harmony and meaning vanish. The world irks me again with its variegated void.

This now-ness is the only reality we know; it follows the colored nothingness of the no-longer and precedes the absolute nothingness of the future. Thus, in a quite literal sense, we may say that conscious human life lasts always only one moment, for at any moment of deliberate attention to our own flow of consciousness we cannot know if that moment will be followed by another.

That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental.

Vladimir Nabokov

am quite willing to admit that they are also a deception but right now I believe in them so much that I infect them with truth.

Yaln?zca düÅŸünceler dünyas?nda deÄŸil, nesneler dünyas?nda da ya??yoruz biz. Deneyim olmaks?z?n kelimeler anlams?zd?r.

We had been everywhere. We had really seen nothing. And I catch myself thinking today that our long journey had only defiled with a sinuous trail of slime the lovely, trustful, dreamy, enormous country that by then, in retrospect, was no more to us than a collection of dog-eared maps, ruined tour books, old tires, and her sobs in the night—every night, every night—the moment I feigned sleep.

Time moves ahead of our fancies

Palm trees are all right only in mirages.

repeat however for the benefit of those who like books to provide them with "real people" and "real crime" and a "message" (that horror of horrors borrowed from the jargon of quack reformers) that Dead Souls will get them nowhere.

Remember that what you are told is really threefold: shaped by the teller, reshaped by the listener, concealed from both by the dead man in the tale.

Un cambio de ambiente es la falacia tradicional sobre la cual descansan los amores -y los pulmones- condenados.