Quotes About Reality

In our endeavour to understand reality we are somewhat like a man trying to understand the mechanism of a closed watch.

The real story can never be told. It is untellable. The real (as real) is inaccessible, being gone in time. There is no point in glancing at the past, in summoning it up, in re-examining it, except on behalf of art — that is, the meaningful-real. (The Bicycle Rider In Beverly Hills (1952))

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Are you sure That we are awake? It seems to me That yet we sleep, we dream

I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here;

And nothing is, but what is not.

One sees more devils than vast hell can hold

Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Noi siamo della stessa materia Di cui son fatti i sogni E la nostra piccola vita È circondata da un sonno.

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? Malvolio: Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. Feste: But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in you wits than a fool.

Somos de la misma sustancia que los sueños, y nuestra breve vida culmina en un dormir.

Nothing that is so, is so.

Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell? Sleeping or waking, mad or well-advised? Known unto these, and to myself disguised? I'll say as they say, and persever so, And in this mist at all adventures go.

Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.

Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner?

yet you see how this world goes. GLOS.: I see it feelingly.

Less art, more matter

Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but 'tis not she: Truth and beauty buriéd be.

I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. Give me that glass and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds? O flattering glass, Like to my followers in prosperity Thou dost beguile me!

Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare, forked animal as thou art.

Too nice, and yet too true!

Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.