Quotes About Reality

Unconditional love is what a child should expect from a parent even though it rarely works out that way.

My needlework teacher suffered from a problem of vision. She recognised things according to expectation and environment. If you were in a particular place, you expected to see particular things. Sheep and hills, sea and fish; if there was an elephant in the supermarket, she'd either not see it at all, or call it Mrs. Jones and talk about fishcakes. But most likely, she's do what most people do when confronted with something they don't understand. Panic.

And what is enlightenment anyway but delusions we can live with?

Fiction and poetry are doses, medicines. What they heal is the rupture reality makes on the imagination.

Humankind cannot bear very much reality. That is why we invent stories, I said. And what if we are the story we invent? said Shelley.

Fiction and poetry] are medicines, they're doses, and they heal the rupture that reality makes on the imagination.

How many of us want any of us to see us as we really are?

Strange to dream in the right shape and build in the wrong shape, but maybe that is what we do every day, never believing that a dream could tell the truth.

My mother had painted the white roses red and now she claimed they grew that way.

We mostly understand ourselves through an endless series of stories told to ourselves by ourselves and others. The so-called facts of our individual worlds are highly coloured and arbitrary, facts that fit whatever reality we have chosen to believe in. . . . It may be that to understand ourselves as fictions, is to understand ourselves as fully as we can.

But, Mistress, do not be seen to stray too far from the real that is clear to others, or you may stand accused of the real that is clear to you.

There are two questions: where have you come from, and where are you going? But the brain doesn't have separate regions for the past and future; only the present is differentiated by the brain. We split time into three parts. The brain, it seems, splits it twice only: now, and not now.

Stories are always true... it's the facts that mislead.

We don't know who we are or how to function, much less how to bloom. Blind nature. Homo sapiens. Who's kidding whom?

The Future is Now. That annoys me because if the future is now, where is the present?

Meatspace still has some advantages for a carbon-based girl.

People like to separate storytelling which is not fact from history which is fact. They do this so that they know what to believe and what not to believe.

Reality is water-soluble. What we could see, the rocks, the shore, the trees, the boats on the lake, had lost their usual definition and blurred into the long grey of a week's rain. Even the house, that we fancied was made of stone, wavered inside a heavy mist and through that mist, sometimes, a door or a window appeared like an image in a dream. Every solid thing had dissolved into its watery equivalent.

I walked out to brood on this life of ours, which seems from birth to death to be a steady loss, disguised by sudden gains and happiness, which persuade us of good fortune, when all the while the glass is emptying.

He doesn't take a photo or a video because he wants to remember — by which he means he wants to misremember because the moment is made up of what the camera can't capture.

Everyone remembers things which never happened. And it is common knowledge that people often forget things which did. Either we are all fantasists and liars or the past has nothing definite in it.

So just you take care, what you think is the heart might well be another organ.

What you think is the heart might well be another organ.

Part fact part fiction is what life is. And it is always a cover story. I wrote my way out.