Quotes About Reality

I wanted those waters to be blue. And they were not.

every social problem is observed in relation to 'norms' which in fact never existed, people

In a flash I saw the boy in the man's eyes. Only it could not be true. I could not have such luck. For the boy had beauty as bountiful as Bianca's. I did not count upon it.

Sometimes we are blinded by the translation we want to be true, and not the one that is correct.

Don't you understand that men will never do more than dream of peace?

So by innocence you mean not an absence of experience, but an absence of illusions." "An absence of need for illusions," he said.

I can supply the thereness. You can't ask what's not there to give.

You can dress a pig up in satin and lace and its still a pig. Francis smiled hazily. Are you calling my intended a pig, Charles? Charles raised a dark eyebrow. Intended what, Francis? You surely cant be having respectable inclinations towards this girl. The bullet hit your arm, not your head.

There is no true life. Your true life is the one you end up with, whatever it may be. You just do the best you can with what you've got.

No couple buying wedding rings wants to be reminded that someday one of them will have to accept the other one's ring from a nurse or an undertaker.

I was born with the impression that what happened in books was much for reasonable, and interesting, and real, in some ways, than what happened in life.

Face it,' I said. 'There is no true life. Your true life is the one you end up with, whatever it may be. You just do the best you can with what you've got,' I said.

He had begun to have spells lately of worrying that he had died, and that everyone knew it but him.

It appears that he was accidentally dreaming somebody else's dream.

Sad people are the only real ones. They can tell you the truth about things; they have always known that there is no one you can depend upon forever and no change in your life, however great, that can keep you from being in the end what you were in the beginning: lost and lonely

I was born with the impression that what happened in books was much more reasonable, and interesting, and real, in some ways, than what happened in life.

The striking thing about death, she thought, was its eventfulness. It made you see you were leading a real life. Real life at last! you could say. Was that why she read the obituaries each morning, hunting familiar names? Was that why she carried on those hushed, awed conversations with the other workers when one of the nursing home patients was carted away in a hearse?

didn't paintings lie also? They showed hours instead of minutes.

When she was a child she used to imagine that her mother might painlessly die somehow and her father would marry a lovely, serene woman who would sit at Willa's bedside when she had a bad dream and lay a cool palm on her forehead.

He was perfect, was how she'd put it to herself. And then that clear-eyed, calm-faced boy would shine forth from Red's sags and wrinkles, from his crumpled eyelids and hollowed cheeks and the two deep crevices bracketing his mouth and just his general obtuseness, his stubbornness, his infuriating belief that simple cold logic could solve all life's problems, and she would feel unspeakably lucky to have ended up with him.

the quality you marry a person for will end up being what you hate them for, most often.

No couple buying wedding rings wants to be reminded that someday one of them will have to accept the other one's ring from a nurse or an undertaker.

that the quality you marry a person for will end up being what you hate them for, most often.

There ought to be a while separate language, she thought, for words that are truer than other words - for perfect, absolute truth. It was the purest fact of her life: she did not understand him, and she never would.