Quotes About Reality

To receive Christ is not accomplished through church membership, nor by outer ritual of acknowledging Jesus as one's savior but never knowing him in reality by contacting him in meditation. To know Christ signifies to close the eyes, expand the consciousness and so deepen the concentration that through the inner light of soul intuition one partakes of the same consciousness that Jesus had.

Her feet were grounded in reality. Because no matter how close or transparent the other side may appear, reality and illusion were two disparate worlds that could never be bridged.

Why does a literary scholar study the world of fiction? To show us that the facts can never be understood except in communion with the imagination.

În fond, n-ai fost niciodat? decât o creaÈ›ie a minÈ›ii mele, un idol pe care-l susÈ›ineam cu braÈ›ele; vedeam numai idolul, nu È™i efortul braÈ›elor mele.

It was... the Great White God de-throned, I suppose. Because we did, we quite unselfconsciously assumed we were the measure of all things. That was how we approached them. And suddenly I saw that we weren't the measure of all things, but that there was no measure.

One began by finding mental illness mystifying, and ended by being still more mystified by health.

we quite unselfconsciously assumed we were the measure of all things. That was how we approached them. And suddenly I saw not only that we weren't the measure of all things, but that there was no measure.

Rivers thought how misleading it was to say that the war had 'matured' these young men. It wasn't true of his patients, and it certainly wasn't true of Burns, in whom a prematurely aged man and a fossilized schoolboy seemed to exist side by side. It did give him a curiously ageless quality, but 'maturity' was hardly the word.

Paranoia has a sharper taste if the danger is real.

A woman in Charlotte approached me and said that she's tired of the dysfunction in my novels. I told her I was sorry, but that is how the world has presented itself to me throughout my life.

I saw the necessity of living and accepting bullcrap in my midst. It was everywhere.

Sweet little Jesus, I thought, as I weaved between the desks, these kids don't know crap.

In no way had my mother with her air of gentility and fine breeding prepared me for the Ida Skimberrys of the world.

He dreamed big dreams - impossible dreams they told him. Then he moved heaven and earth to make his dreams come true. When you, as a leader, start with a vision, then communicate that vision to the people you lead, utilize your people skills to motivate and inspire them, maintain your character and integrity at every decision-point, command with competence, lead with boldness and confidence, and support your people with your serving heart, your vision will become your reality.

How strange to be in a dream one moment and in the world the next, and to know the difference in the blink of an eye.

That man would betray his own shadow. And for what? A child's tale.' 'Is it?' Mag looked at her. 'Is it only a tale?' For a moment, the purple eyes grew dark, black as the little rags of shadows that Mag saw on empty streets or patches of barren ground, attached to nothing, seemingly blown at random from some place adrift in light.

The human world is a cold and bitter place: nothing lasts in it. You must know that by now…. What did you imagine you were doing in those two rooms? Trying to turn yourself human?" "Yes," Corbet said, so simply that for a breath he rendered his father incapable of moving.

I did not say what I thought; perhaps, if it remained unspoken, it would become untrue.

He seems to be fighting again. But whether he is battling memories or something real, I can't tell.

I aine never seen a fox before. So, why should I be scared of you and I don't even-now know you a real fox for a fact?

we are here confronted with an irreducible oddity about all human societies: all are strung around figments of the human imagination.

All writers are, somewhere or other, mad. Not les grands fous, like Rimbaud, but mad, yes, mad. Because we do not believe in the stability of reality. We know that it can fragment, like a sheet of glass or a car's windscreen. but we also know that reality can be invented, reordered, constructed, remade. Writing is, in itself, an act of violence perpetrated against reality.

Nothing is perfect for long, though sometimes it's perfect for a little while. It can only be pried out of the moment, sequestered between the red leatherette covers where it begins its career as a memory. Bits of reality are pressed to the pages like wildflowers, flattened and faded, but there.

Innocence is a temporary, maybe even an unreal, condition. Destined to die. Innocence lost is supposed to be experience gained, and therefore not a bad trade. The fortunate fall as Professor Youngblood taught us in Milton 3111. But what if innocence is never lost, never forfeited Then it can't rise to the edifying abstraction of 'experience.