Quotes About Reality

Algún día que venga ya no me va a encontrar se topará nomas con el puro viento. Llegará ese día y cuando llegue, no habrá ni quien le dé una razón. Y pensará que todo a sido mentira.

Una noche la soñé y tal como la soñé amaneció frente a mi puerta.

El Distrito Federal es una ciudad que tiene origen de quimera, sacada del agua, levantada sobre el agua. Los mexicanos viven sobre lo inestable, trampa, marisma y pantano a la vez. Aquí lo real y lo irreal se confunden.

Only the TV sounds are real, they are the actual events. All the people around here experience the same things at the same time, except for some loner, who switches to the educational channel.

Schein geht vor Sein [...]. Ja, die Realität ist wahrscheinlich einer der schlimmsten Irrtümer überhaupt. Lüge geht demnach vor Wahrheit [...]. Das Irreale kommt vor dem Realen. Und die Kunst gewinnt dabei an Qualität.

Submission to something you didn't preach yourself is no good, I quote. Because Man must burst his ridiculous bonds, which consist of what is supposedly current reality with a prospect of a future reality of scarcely any greater value.

epistemologist?

Most people are awaiting Virtual Reality; I'm awaiting virtuous reality.

The body she inhabited during the day was not hers but rather a reflection from other people's eyes.

Have you heard that terrifying expression "to kill time"? It's time that kills us, but we pretend it's the other way around!

People are only the phantoms of their memories.

Love has a thousand doors. But one-sided love isn't a door, it's a delusion.

Half the work that is done in this world is to make things appear what they are not.

That's what I always tell myself when I'm being fact-checked, and some detail I was attached to turns out not to be true. I'm initially disappointed, and maybe discouraged that now there's more work for me to do, but I know that 99.9% of the time there's actually something there, in the truth, that's more interesting than whatever I or anyone else can make up.

It was weird what was enough to make you feel good or bad, even though your basic life circumstances were the same.

I kept thinking about the uneven quality of time- the way it was almost always so empty, and then with no warning came a few days that felt so dense and alive and real that it seemed indisputable that THAT was what life was, that its real nature had finally been revealed.

The story had a stilted feel, and yet while you were reading you felt totally inside its world, a world where reality mirrored the grammar constraints, and what Slavic 101 couldn't name didn't exist.

thinking about the uneven quality of time—the way it was almost always so empty, and then with no warning came a few days that felt so dense and alive and real that it seemed indisputable that that was what life was, that its real nature had finally been revealed. But then time passed and unthinkably grew dead again, and it turned out that that fullness had been an aberration and might never come back.

How could a thirteenth-century person have written such things? If you want what visible reality can give, you are an employee. On the other hand, why couldn't Rumi have said that?

There was another snowstorm, although immediately after, the sun came out and it was almost sixty degrees, so the snow melted. Nothing was real anymore; everything was over.

Exactly! Because he's not a real person, you don't have to worry about it. Do you see what I'm saying? He looks like an ideal person, but the real person behind that mask could have all kinds of problems.

Why did I insist on blocking myself against the marrow of life? Wasn't this—this, being outside, here, negotiating with a handsome, possibly disabled mugger—wasn't this, the cigarette butts and melon guts in the gutter, the faint smell of horses, the sickening pulse of bass from the clubs—wasn't this what life was?

The sad thing is, people don't want to believe that the person they're in love with is out of his mind, drinking and using, so if you give them even half an excuse, they're going to want to believe it.

It is intellectually and spiritually incoherent to believe in the innocent play of children when you are willing to sacrifice them upon the altar of your ambition, your avarice, your lusts, or your convenience. You cannot suppress the reality of the child without amputating your humanity and searing the wound with bitumen and pitch. The