Quotes About Reality

I guess you're right,' he said. 'They don't usually put anything on the television unless it's true.

if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be: but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic.

I know what you are thinking about', said Tweedledum: 'but it isn't so, nohow.' 'Contrariwise,' continued Tweedledee, 'if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be: but as it isn't, it ain't. That's logic.

There has always been, for me, this other world, this second world to fall back on--a more reliable world in so far as it does not hide that its premise is illusion.

So what was it then exactly, this truth-telling? ... It was about being true to the very stuff of life, it was about trying to capture, though you never could, the very feel of being alive. It was about finding a language. And it was about being true to the fact, the one thing only followed from the other, that many things in life —of so many more than we think—can never be explained at all.

Realism; fatalism; phlegm. To live in the Fens is to receive strong doses of reality. The great flat monotony of reality; the wide empty space of reality. Melancholia and self-murder are not unknown in the Fens. Heavy drinking, madness and sudden acts of violence are not uncommon. How do you surmount reality, children? How do you acquire, in a flat country, the tonic of elevated feelings?

Possibly he knew, as he wrote this, that he was mad - because inside every madman sits a little sane man saying 'You're mad, you're mad

But I have not brought history with me this evening (history is a thin garment, easily punctured by a knife blade called Now). I have brought my fear.

This was the great truth of life, that fact and fiction were always merging, interchanging.

And there's no saying what heady potions we won't concoct, what meanings, myths, manias we won't imbibe in order to convince ourselves that reality is not an empty vessel.

Life is full of obstacle illusions.

Adults...struggle desperately with fiction, demanding constantly that it conform to the rules of everyday life. Adults foolishly demand to know how Superman can possibly fly, or how Batman can possibly run a multibillion-dollar business empire during the day and fight crime at night, when the answer is obvious even to the smallest child: because it's not real.

Your head's like mine, like all our heads; big enough to contain every god and devil there ever was. Big enough to hold the weight of oceans and the turning stars. Whole universes fit in there! But what do we choose to keep in this miraculous cabinet? Little broken things, sad trinkets that we play with over and over. The world turns our key and we play the same little tune again and again and we think that tune's all we are.

Sometimes... sometimes I think the Asylum is a head. We're inside a huge head that dreams us all into being. Perhaps it's your head, Batman. Arkham is a looking glass... and we are you.

You are meant to play the ball as it lies, a fact that may help to touch on your own objective approach to life.

When all hopes are lost, only then does reality acquire that sharp focus that defines who we are and what we have become.

To see the awful things is to see life as it really is. It makes you sharper, stronger, superior. You can stand it when others cannot.

The truth is stranger than fiction . . . and often more incriminating.

If there was one remaining purpose to my life, though, this was it: to prove that the truth could always be faced – explained, demystified, accepted.

Simulated consciousness" was as oxymoronic as "simulated addition.

He turned back to face them. 'I do make sense to you, don't I? I'm not just imagining that communication is taking place?

Peer shook his head. "What have I become, already? An endless series of people – all happy for their own private reasons. Linked together by the faintest thread of memory. Why keep them spread out in time? Why go on pretending that there's one 'real' person, enduring through all those arbitrary changes?

The whole idea of a creator tears itself apart. A universe with conscious beings either finds itself in the dust … or it doesn't. It either makes sense of itself on its own terms, as a self-contained whole … or not at all. There never can, and never will be, Gods.

How do you know which parts of the world are you, in the polises?' 'Are there citizens in Konishi who eat music?' 'Is not having a body like falling all the time, without moving?