Quotes About Reality

Do you think you can cause something to happen just from wanting it so much?' she asked. 'I don't get what you mean. Does this have to do with your dad?' asked Frannie. 'Not really. I'm talking about loneliness.' Frannie turned around and considered her answer. For awhile she seemed to be in a wilderness of her own. 'Do you mean that you imagined that Issy was your friend?' 'Yes, so completely that it was real.' 'Oh, that can happen. I believe that totally. Loneliness is powerful.

For reality's glow and glory, without poetry, Fade, like the red operas of sunset

Its perorations verge upon the ceaseless orations of the ocean: For reality's glow and glory, without poetry, Fade, like the red operas of sunset, The blue rivers and windows of morning.

the knowledge of true danger may cure us of false fears

Engullimos de un sorbo la mentira que nos adula y bebemos gota a gota la verdad que nos amarga.

Once upon a time there was a war...and a young American who thought of himself as the Quiet American and the Ugly American, and who wished to be neither, who wanted instead to be the Wise American, or the Good American, but who eventually came to witness himself as the Real American and finally as simply the Fucking American. That's me.

WE'RE ON THE CUTTING EDGE OF REALITY ITSELF. RIGHT WHERE IT TURNS INTO A DREAM

eventually these encounters forced him to acknowledge the reality of fate, and the truth inherent in things of the imagination.

It was all right to be who he was, but others would probably think it was terrible. A couple of times in the past he'd reached this absolute zero of the truth, and without fear or bitterness he realized now that somewhere inside it there was a move he could make to change his life, to become another person, but he'd never be able to guess what it was.

The abyss is full of reality, the abyss experiences itself, the abyss is alive.

Maybe, when you hear the name Beverly, you think of Beverly Hills--people wandering the streets with their heads shot off by money.

All night the dreamer travels in this region and doesn't realize he's asleep. The differences between the logic of that world and the logic of this waking one are vast. But they feel the same. And isn't that how we recognize logic, by the way it feels?

I knew that, but he didn't, and therefore I looked down into the great pity of a person's life on this earth. I don't mean that we all end up dead, that's not the great pity. I mean that he couldn't tell me what he was dreaming, and I couldn't tell him what was real.

I'm telling you it's cold inside the body that is not the body, lonesome behind the face that is certainly not the face of the person one meant to become.

To find the people who've became truly sane, seek among those who've managed to do without sanity.

Night again, the insects are loud, the moths are killing themselves on the lamp. Two hours ago I sat on the veranda looking out at the dusk, filled with envy for each living entity—bird, bug, blossom, reptile, tree, and vine—that doesn't bear the burden of the knowledge of good and evil. The abyss is full of reality, the abyss experiences itself, the abyss is alive

What I don't think has been talked about is the fact that in order to be Hell, the people in Hell could never be sure they were really there.

Meaning can't change from person to person, and still be true

He'd come to war to see abstractions become realities. Instead he'd seen the reverse. Everything was abstract now.

Psy Ops is all about unusual thinking, man. We want ideas blown up right to where they're gonna pop. We're on the cutting edge of reality itself. Right where it turns into a dream.

I've masqueraded as a literary critic, and with a great deal more success, but criticism isn't real—it's not a real thing.

But every time I entered the place there were veiled faces promising everything and then clarifying quickly into the dull, the usual, looking up at me and making the same mistake.

It had occurred to Sean once - on a bender about ten years before with some buddies, Sean and a bloodstream full of bourbon turning philosophical - that maybe they HAD gotten in that car. All three of them. And what they now thought of as their life was just a dream state. That all three of them were, in reality, still eleven-year-old boys trapped in some cellar, imagining what they'd become if they ever escaped and grew up.

A man is the stories he tells about himself, and most of those stories are lies. Never look too closely. If you uncover his lies, it'll humiliate you both. Best just to live with the bullshit.