Quotes About Reality

F. Scott Fitzgerald

The world only exists in your eyes. You can make it as big or as small as you want it.

I have lived so long within the circle of this book [Tender Is The Night] and with these characters that often it seems to me that the real world does not exist but that only these characters exist, and, however pretentious that remark sounds....it is an absolute fact---so much so that their glees and woes are just exactly as important to me as what happens in life.

him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not

Thoughts are Things; things that have a tendency to transform into our reality.

Having children is no guarantee that you'll get visitors Ã¢â'¬Â¦ No, it isn't.

See what I mean? She thinks she sees all kinds of things out in the yard. Last week it was flying turtles." She walked over and picked up his dishes. "I'm not sure if it was that fall she took a while ago or just her age; she's older than God.

You think people are some kind of pure, white feathered birds flying in the clouds. They're not. They're pigs and they love to wallow in the mud and dirt.

Sometimes a woman in love doesn't see what's right in front of her eyes. Even a woman with a law degree.

But looking under the covers of Indian democracy one sees a more complex and troubling reality. In recent decades, India has become something quite different from the picture in the hearts of its admirers. Not that it is less democratic: in important ways it has become more democratic. But it has become less tolerant, less secular, less law-abiding, less liberal. And these two trends—democratization and illiberalism—are directly related.

Even after waking From the dream I'll see the colors of irises.

There is no such thing as was-only is. If was existed, there would be no grief or sorrow.

Because lurking somewhere beneath the surface of your brain is a vision of loneliness, and it will be a terrible moment when it breaks through, and you realise that your future is not a green pastures, but the knackers yard. We are all separate people, and we are all alone. It is a ridiculous thing to say that no man is an island. We are all islands. You can die, and Gerry won't. Gerry can die, and you won't. Our lives just go on, separate as they have always been.

A dream. He wondered if dreams ever came true. No, those dreams were gone forever.

I can make the dream come true. If I want to. Sometimes it's better to just dream. I guess it's the same principle as saying, be careful of what you wish for because you might get it.

The plain man's house was palatial, even by the

We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.

My God, my God, whose performance am I watching? How many people am I? Who am I? What is this space between myself and myself?

Eternal tourists of ourselves, there is no landscape but what we are. We possess nothing, for we don't even possess ourselves. We have nothing because we are nothing. What hand will I reach out, and to what universe? The universe isn't mine: it's me.

O poeta é um fingidor. Finge tão completamente Que chega a fingir que é dor A dor que deveras sente.

This world is for those who are born to conquer it, Not for those who dream that are able to conquer it, even if they're right.

Life is whatever we conceive it to be.

I feel closer ties and more intimate bonds with certain characters in books, with certain images I've seen in engravings, than with many supposedly real people, with that metaphysical absurdity known as "flesh and blood." In fact "flesh and blood" describes them very well: they resemble cuts of meat laid out on the butcher's marble slab, dead creatures bleeding as though still alive, the sirloin steaks and cutlets of Fate.

It's not demons (who at least have a human face) but Hell itself that seems to be laughing inside me, it's the croaking madness of the dead universe, the spinning cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds blowing blackly in the wind, formless and timeless, without a God who created it, without even its own self, impossibly whirling in the absolute darkness as the one and only reality, everything.