Quotes About Reality

Some day...as you grow older, you will find imagination sometimes produces a truth that is greater than any fact.

If a man could just hang onto one illusion he could still love. The main trouble with being an honest man was that it lost you all your illusions.

Letters, like long-distance phone calls, could never convince him of the existence of another human far away existing in this same present he existed in. In reality, Violet did not exist until he saw her, then she began again where she had left off before. In-between she existed only in his mind, and how can you write a letter to your own imagination?

It is as painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born.

What incensed him the most was the blatant jokes of the ones that passed it all off as a jest, pretending to understand everything and in reality not knowing their own minds.

If he had smiled why would he have smiled? To reflect that each one who enters imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.

By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard it in an echo of the infuriated cries within him.

if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes this thusness.

Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

There is not past, no future; everything flows in an eternal present.

One great part of every human existence is passed in a state which cannot be rendered sensible by the use of wideawake language, cutanddry grammar and goahead plot.

Thus the unfacts, did we possess them, are too imprecisely few to warrant our certitude...

History ... is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake.

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.

I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

It could not be a wall but there could be a thin thin line there all round everything.

What dreams would he have, not seeing. Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way?

O, undoubtedly yes, and very potable so, but one who deeper thinks will always bear in the baccbuccus of his mind that this downright there you are and there it is is only all in his eye. Why?

Unsheathe your dagger definitions; Horseness is the Whatness of All Horse...

He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld.

Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, carries you first in her body. What do we know about what she feels? But whatever she feels, it, at least, must be real. It must be. What are our ideas or ambitions? Play. Ideas! Why, that bloody bleating goat Temple has ideas. MacCann has ideas too. Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.

Amen.So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?

Into the wikeawades warld from sleep we are passing.