Quotes About Reality

Things weren't ever what they were supposed to be; they were what they were, and that was the simple truth of it, a truth that didn't change just because you wanted it to.

So he's a bad guy." "Everyone's bad." "No," Bob said, "they're not. Most people are okay." "Yeah?" A smile of disbelief. "Yeah. They just, I dunno, make a lotta messes and then they make more messes trying to clean those first messes up and after a while that's your life." She sniffled and chuckled at the same time. "That's it, uh?" "That's it sometimes.

All the stuff our fathers took for granted as long as you worked hard, the great safety net and the fair wage and the gold watch at the end of it all? That's all gone around here, my friend.

There's darkness in this world you can't learn about by watching TV and reading books.

Brendan knew about the truth. In most cases, it was just a matter of deciding whether you wanted to look it in the face or live with the comfort of ignorance and lies. And ignorance and lies were often underrated. Most people Brendan knew couldn't make it through the day without a saucerful of ignorance and a side of lies.

The mean things of this world had only one lesson-we are meaner than you'd ever imagine.

Maybe honor was in its twilight. Maybe it had always been heading that way. Or worse, maybe it had always been an illusion.

Because truth hurts, truth costs, truth upends your world.

We all believe lies that bring us more comfort than the truth.

Habías visto algo tan cruel? Soltó una risita. —He visto cosas

That's the thing about being a victim; you start to think it'll happen to you on a regular basis. Suddenly everything looks suspect and any brightness you may have noticed the day before has dissipated into the shadows. And the shadows are everywhere. It's living with the reality of your own vulnerability, and it sucks.

Kenzie… Me di la vuelta para mirar a Bolton. —Si usted y su socia no son ni civiles ni polis, ¿qué son? Me encogí de hombros. —Un par de idiotas que se creen más duros de lo que realmente son.

Shit happens. It is what it is. Whatta ya gonna do.

Safety is an illusion we sell to children to help them sleep. Then I wanted to be a child.

Non sono pazza. Non lo sono. Certo, cos'altro direbbe una pazza? E' questo l'aspetto geniale della situazione. L'aspetto kafkiano. Se non sei pazza ma la gente ha detto a tutti che lo sei, allora qualsiasi affermazione contraria da parte tua non farà che rafforzare quella tesi. Capisce cosa intendo?

A man is the stories he tells about himself and most of those stories are lies. And never look too closely if you uncover his lies, it will humiliate you both. Its best to just live with the bullshit." Then her mother kissed her head, patted her cheek, told her she was safe.

But we pay a price for everyone's putting on a happy face—we start believing that life for everyone else is great. I wonder what effect

Expecting to get what we want is immaturity, not optimism, and adults cannot long sustain happiness while holding immature beliefs.

I spent a long time trying to come to grips with my doubts, when suddenly I realized that I had better come to grips with what I believe. I have since moved from the agony of questions that I cannot answer to the reality of answers that I cannot escape . . . and it's a great relief!

We have become so brainwashed by the fast, usually bloodless, and always painless deaths shown continually by the movie and television production industry that our collective perceptions of the act of death are sanitized. Whether by gunshot or through illness, the actor just rolls over and that's the end. We want so much to believe that this is true that we don't question it.

The most irritating thing about cliches, I decided, was how frequently they were true.

Time makes very little difference to the basic realities of life

For several days, I slept. Whether this was a necessary part of physical recovery, or a stubborn retreat from waking reality, I do not know, but I woke only reluctantly to take a little food, falling at once back into a stupor of oblivion, as though the small, warm weight of broth in my stomach were an anchor that pulled me after it, down through the murky fathoms of sleep.

Could it be possible that he really did have enough imagination to be able to grasp the truth?