Quotes About Reality

To reach the truth we lack both the necessary facts and the intellectual processes that could exhaust all possible interpretations of those facts.

if what lies beyond the theatre doors is life, then we will live; if it is death, then we will die, and the play is irrelevant.

La vida es lo que hacemos de ella. Los viajes son los viajeros. Lo que vemos no es lo que vemos sino lo que somos.

a disdain full of disgust for those who don't realize that the only reality is each man's soul, and that everything else - the exterior world and other people - is but an unaesthetic nightmare

Con pequeños malentendidos con la realidad construimos las creencias y las esperanzas, y vivimos de las cortezas a las que llamamos panes, como los niños pobres que juegan a ser felices.

There is no happiness without knowledge, but the knowledge of happiness brings unhappiness, because to know one is happy is to know that one is passing through happiness and, therefore, will soon be obliged to leave it behind. In happiness as in everything, knowledge kills. Not to know, however, is not to exist.

se lembre como é não só melhor, senão mais verdadeiro, o sonhar com Bordéus do que desembarcar em Bordéus

A verdade, porém, é que não existo nem eu, nem outra coisa qualquer. Todo este universo, e todos os outros universos, com seus diversos criadores e seus diversos Satãs mais ou menos perfeitos e adestrados são vácuos dentro do vácuo, nadas que giram, satélites, na órbita inútil de coisa nenhuma.

Somos muerte. Esto, que consideramos vida, es el sueño de la vida real, la muerte de lo que verdaderamente somos. Los muertos nacen, no mueren. Están trocados, para nosotros, los mundos. Cuando creemos que vivimos, estamos muertos; vamos a vivir cuando estamos moribundos.

Fernando Pessoa

Let us watch Time painting the world and finding the resulting picture not only false but hollow.

When I participate, although it seems that I'm expanding, I'm limiting myself. To associate is to die. Only my consciousness of myself is real for me; other people are hazy phenomena in this consciousness, and it would be morbid to attribute very much reality to them.

Everything is absurd.

I always thought of metaphysics as a prolonged form of latent madness.

How many things that we consider right or true are merely the vestiges of our dreams, the sleepwalking figures of our incomprehension! Does anyone know what's right or true? How many things we consider beautiful are merely the fashion of the day, the fiction of their time and place! How many things we consider ours are utterly foreign to our blood, we being merely their perfect mirrors or transparent wrappers!

All that we truly possess are our own sensations; it is in them, rather than in what they sense, that we must base our life's reality. This has nothing to do with anything.

Perhaps the novel is a more perfect life and reality, which God creates through us. Perhaps we live only to create it. It seems that civilization exists only to produce art and literature; words are what speak for it and remain. How do we know that these extra-human figures aren't truly real? It tortures my mind to think this might be the case

Since life is essentially a mental state and everything that we do or think is only as valuable as we think it is, it depends on us for any value it may have.

The truly superior (and the happiest) men are those who, perceiving that everything is a fiction, make up their own novel before someone else does it for them and, like Machiavelli, don courtly robes in order to write in secret.

To associate is to die. Only my consciousness of myself is real for me; other people are hazy phenomena in this consciousness, and it would be morbid to attribute very much reality to them.

Today I have only reality, and I cannot play with that … Poor child exiled in his manhood! Why did I have to grow up?

I let my mind wander, and I'm sure that what I'm writing I've already written. I remember. And I ask the one in me who presumes to exist if in the Platonism of sensations there might not be another, less vertical anamnesis – another pre-existing life that we vaguely remember but that belongs only to this life… My God, my God, who am I watching? How many am I? Who is I? What is this gap between me and myself?

Reason is the worst type of dream since it carries me into the dream of the regularity of life which does not exist, that is to say, it is doubly nothing.' 'But what does that mean?' Putting my hand on the other's shoulder and holding him in my arms, 'Aïe, my son, what does anything mean?

Without illusions, we live by dreaming, which is the illusion of those who can't have illusions.