Quotes About Reality

The Chinese poet George Wu ... recorded on his comlog: Poets are the mad midwives to reality. They see not what is, nor what can be, but what must become. Later, on his last disk to his lover the week before he died, Wu said: Words are the only bullets in truth's bandolier. And poets are the snipers.

His imagination was always more real than the reality of daily life.

We thought we were special, opening our perceptions, honing our empathy, spilling that cauldron of shared pain onto the dance floor of language and then trying to make a minuet out of all that chaotic hurt. It doesn't matter a damn bit. We're no avatars, no sons of god or man. We're only us, scribbling our conceits alone, reading alone, and dying alone.

There is something about raising a child that helps to sharpen one's sense of what is real.

The universe just does not give a shit.

She [Beatrice] alone was still real for him, still implied meaning in the world, and beauty. Her nature became his landmark - what Melville would call, with more sobriety than we can now muster, his Greenwich Standard ...

Haven't you ever harbored the secret thought that somewhere Huck and Jim are—at this instant—poling their raft down some river just beyond our reach, so much more real are they than the shoe clerk who fitted us just a forgotten day ago?

In the end, it doesn't matter a damn bit. We thought we were special, opening our perceptions, honing our empathy, spilling that cauldron of shared pain onto the dance floor of language and then trying to make a minuet out of all that chaotic hurt. It doesn't matter a damn bit. We're no avatars, no sons of god or man. We're only us, scribbling our conceits alone, reading alone, and dying alone. Goddamn it hurts.

the world often seemed more like a template for fiction than something that should be indulged in for its own sake.

Life is brutal that way... the loss of irrecoverable moments amid trivia and distraction.

The universe is indifferent to our fates.

Life is brutal that way Ã¢â'¬Â¦ the loss of irrecoverable moments amid trivia and distraction.

In the end, it doesn't matter a damn bit. We thought we were special, opening our perceptions, honing our empathy, spilling that cauldron of shared pain onto the dance floor of language and then trying to make a minuet out of all that chaotic hurt. It doesn't matter a damn bit. We're no avatars, no sons of god or man. We're only us, scribbling our conceits alone, reading alone, and dying alone.

Poets are the mad midwives to reality. They see not what is, nor what can be, but what must become." Later, on his last disk to his lover the week before he died, Wu said: "Words are the only bullets in truth's bandolier. And poets are the snipers.

We come into this world alone, We depart alone,    This also is illusion. I will teach you the way Not to come, not to go!

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort of suffering." Oh, Fanny, if only you knew! We are created for precisely this sort of suffering. In the end, it is all we are, these limpid tide pools of self-consciousness between crashing waves of pain.

Her eyes are open but she does not see.

Silenus's true age might be anywhere from ninety to a hundred and fifty standard years. If he were close to the latter age, the Consul knew, the odds were that the poet was quite mad. As

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be, we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

I did not know if androids could dream—

eyes too filled with the sharp edge of experience to hide their pain...

Niemand hat je gesagt, dass das Universum normal ist.

Are we all illusions? Brief shadows thrown on a white wall for the shallow amusement of bored gods? Is this all?

Time sure kicks the shit out of people...