Quotes About Reality

y allí donde existía una morada estable se presenta una construcción imaginaria, forma que depende sólo del pensamiento —como erigida toda y solamente en la imaginación.

Something is true only next to something else, and I always think the world has been conceived of with sufficient space to encompass everything: that which has been does not need to be cleared from its spot but only needs to be gradually transformed, just as whatever is yet to occur does not fall from the skies at the last moment but resides always already right next to us, around us and within our heart, waiting for the cue that will summon it to visibility.

Mümkün müdür tüm gerçeklikler onlar için bir anlam ifade etmesin; mümkün müdür hayatlar? boÅŸ odalardaki saatler gibi hiçbirÅŸeye baÄŸlanmadan geçsin?

He began to write a new type of short lyric, which he sometimes called a "Kunst-Ding": a poem in which the obtrusive interferences of an authorial self and all subjective, accidental occasions have been replaced by an inwardly tensile, self-contained sculptural presence, delimited by strong contours but filled with an utmost of interacting visual and visible reality.

Ini bukan pertama kali kita kalah, tapi kini pemimpin kita meraikannya seolah kita menang. (Tentang Perjanjian Damai Oslo antara Israel-Palestin)

It was unbelievable, but perhaps only the unbelievable could be believed. Perhaps the truth was always a lie.

But what a feeling can come over a man just from seeing the things he believes in and hopes for symbolized in the concrete form of a man. In something that gives a focus to all the other things he knows to be real. Something that makes unseen things manifest and allows him to come to his hopes and dreams through his outer eye and through the touch and feel of his natural hand.

You're a Black educated fool, son. These white folk have newspapers, magazines, radios, spokesmen to get their ideas across. If they want to tell the world a lie, they can tell it so well that it becomes the truth; and if I tell them you're lying, they'll tell the world even if you prove you're telling the truth. Because it's the kind of lie they want to hear.

Boo'ful, she said, life could be so diff'rent— But it never is, I said.

That invisibility to which I refer occurs because of a peculiar disposition of the eyes of those with whom I come in contact. A matter of the construction of their INNER eyes, those eyes with which they look through their physical eyes upon reality.

He's only a man. Remember that. He's only a man!

They were very much the same, each attempting to force his picture of reality upon me and neither giving a hoot in hell for how things looked to me.

No indeed, the world is just as concrete, ornery, vile and sublimely wonderful as before, only now I better understand my relation to it and it to me.

It was unbelievable, but perhaps only the unbelievable could be believed. Perhaps the truth was always a lie. Perhaps

An illusion was creating a counter-illusion. Where would it end? Did they believe their own propaganda? Afterwards

Well, few men love the truth or even regard facts so dearly as to let either one upset their picture of the world. Poor Galileo, poor John Jasper; they persecuted one and laughed at the other, but both were witnesses for the truth they professed.

the younger crowd for whom I now felt a contempt such as only a disillusioned dreamer feels for those still unaware that they dream...

You ache with the need to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're part of all the sound and anguish

that's when you got your first peep through the crack in the wall of life and saw hell laughing like a gang of drunk farmers watching a dogfight on a country road.

Then too, you're constantly being bumped against by those of poor vision. Or again, you doubt if you really exist. You wonder whether you aren't simply a phantom in other people's minds. Say, a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with all his strength to destroy.

Play the game, but don't believe in it—that much you owe yourself.

That which we do is what we are. That which we remember is, more often than not, that which we would like to have been; or that which we hope to be. Thus our memory and our identity are ever at odds; our history ever a tall tale told by inattentive idealists.

you often doubt if you really exist. You wonder whether you aren't simple a phantom in other people's minds. Say, a figure in a nightmare which the sleeper tries with all his strength to destroy… You ache with the need to convince yourself that you do exist in the real world, that you're a part of all the sound and anguish, and you strike out with your fists, you curse and you swear to make them recognize you. And, alas, it's seldom successful.

Well, few men love the truth or even regard facts so dearly as to let either one upset their picture of the world.