Quotes About Reality

Last night I wept. I wept because the process by which I have become woman was painful. I wept because I was no longer a child with a child's blind faith. I wept because my eyes were opened to reality....I wept because I could not believe anymore and I love to believe. I can still love passionately without believing. That means I love humanly. I wept because I have lost my pain and I am not yet accustomed to its absence.

Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.

Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people's.

When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.

We don't see the world as it is, we see it as we are

If a person continues to see giants, it means he is still looking at the world through the eyes of a child.

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, & you believe you are living.

Where the myth fails, human love begins. Then we love a human being, not our dream, but a human being with flaws.

She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.

Women always think that when they have my shoes, my dress my hairdresser, my make-up, it will work the same way. They do not conceive of the witchcraft that is needed. They do not know that I am not beautiful but that I only appear to be at certain moments.

The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.

Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death

I am apparently gentle, unstable, and full of pretenses. I will die a poet killed by the nonpoets, will renounce no dream, resign myself to no ugliness, accept nothing of the world but the one I made myself. I wrote, lived, loved like Don Quixote, and on the day of my death I will say: 'Excuse me, it was all a dream,' and by that time I may have found one who will say: 'Not at all, it was true, absolutely true.

I know that I go through life like a drunkard. I'm drunk on illusion. But no matter how drunk I am, there are things I can't help seeing, ferociously real things. I close my eyes, and I reel, I reel. I reel, I believe, I live in a fever and turmoil, I rise into ecstasy, but all the time there is the face of reality staring at me with ugly eyes. I know that if I open my eyes I will be intolerably hurt by the ugliness.

Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.

When human pain has struck me fiercely, when anger has corroded me, I rise, I always rise after the crucifixion, and I am in terror of my ascensions. THE FISSURE IN REALITY. The divine departure. I fall. I fall into darkness after the collusion with pain, and after pain the divine departure.

Man needs reality, and woman illusion. Man needs illusion, too, but the woman who gives him illusion also gives him less reality—in proportion.

Last night I wept. I wept because the process by which I have become woman was painful. I wept because I was no longer a child with a child's blind faith. I wept because my eyes were opened to reality.

Eu sunt femeia care ofer? iluzie, care primeÅŸte imaginaÅ£ia b?rbatului. O situaÅ£ie pe care târfa o invidiaz?... Târfa domneÅŸte în realitate.

He has made me lucid and sane, and I am suffering cruelly from the loss of my imaginary life.

Yet my friend Natasha [Troubetskoia]† swears that Dostoevsky was a great liar and you could hardly find a Nastasia, an "idiot," or a Stavrogin in Russia.

The fear that truth should prove uninteresting is known only to weak-stomached artists. Respect the mysteries, they say. Do not open Pandora's box. Poetic vision is not the outcome of blindness but of a force which can transcend the ugliest face of reality, swallow and dissolve it by its strength, not evasion.

Films are like a dose of opium, then as you come out in the street it's a shock, and you are brutally awakened from your dream. But when you stay, you never wake up. The dream goes on working. I would fall asleep for a while and then see images on the screen, and I could not tell the difference between the film and a dream.

What does is mean that you have not written me?... Am I a dream to you, am I not real and warm for you? What new loves, new ecstasies, new impulses move you now?