Quotes About Perception

Starched shirts and suits fresh from the cleaners' went a long, long way toward hiding a multitude of sins.

and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality.

aristo poetika'da der ki,'' dedi henry, ''ceset gibi gerçekte görmesi rahats?z edici ÅŸeyler sanat eserlerinde bakmaya doyulmayacak manzaralara dönüÅŸebilir.

beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful. Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

to make it seem something more, in short, than my own fatal tendency to try to make interesting people good

a scrap of seventeenth-century sunlight compressed into dots and pixels

Las cosas nunca son lo que parecen..., todo bueno o todo malo. Sería mucho más fácil si lo fueran.

Maybe I only see a pattern because I've been staring too long. But then again, maybe I see a pattern because it's there.

He had never seen a gunshot wound. He kept asking what if felt like? dull or sharp? an ache or a burn? My head was spinning and naturally I could give him no kind of coherent answer but I remember thinking dimly that it was sort of like the first time I got drunk, or slept with a girl; not quite what one expected, really, but once it happened it couldn't be any other way. Neon lights: Motel 6, Dairy Queen. Colors so bright, they nearly broke my heart.

Sometimes, when there's been an accident and reality is too sudden and strange to comprehend, the surreal will take over.

We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves.

But even that day, there on the porch, with Charles beside me and the smell of wood smoke in the air, it had a quality of a memory; there it was, before my eyes, and yet too beautiful to believe

Una mente perspicaz siempre acaba descubriendo la razón. ¿Pero la suerte? Es invisible, caótica, angelical.

What if you had never seen the sea before? What if the only thing you'd ever seen was a child's picture - blue crayon, choppy waves? Would you know the real sea if you only knew the picture? Would you be able to recognize the real thing even if you saw it?

Hay cosas tan terribles que no podemos entenderlas inmediatamente. Y hay cosas —desnudas, farfullantes, indelebles tan horrorosas— demasiado terribles para que lleguemos a entenderlas jamás. Sólo más adelante, en la soledad, en la memoria, nos damos cuenta: cuando las cenizas se han enfriado, cuando ya se han marchado los dolientes; cuando miras a tu alrededor y te encuentras, para tu sorpresa, en un mundo completamente diferente.

Percebi que me imaginara, durante anos, em outro local mas que, na realidade, permaneci lá o tempo inteiro

what mattered most, as I came to realize, was who'd lived in Vegas the longest, which was why the knock-down Mexican beauties and itinerant construction heirs sat alone at lunch while the bland, middling children of local realtors and car dealers were the cheerleaders and class presidents, the unchallenged elite of the school.

I saw this at about three o'clock in the morning, alone in my apartment, on a black-and-white set with lots of interference. White noise and snow. He seemed to be speaking directly at me, right out of the television set. For a moment I was disoriented, seized by panic; could a ghost embody itself through wavelengths, electronic dots, a picture tube? What are the dead, anyway, but waves and energy? Light shining from a dead star?

It's not about outward appearances but inward significance. A grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world doesn't understand.

Across those unbridgeable distances—between bird and painter, painting and viewer—I hear only too well what's being said to me, a psst from an alleyway as Hobie put it, across four hundred years of time, and it's really very personal and specific.

Y eso es lo que hacen todos los grandes maestros. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Lo último de Tiziano. Construyen la ilusión, el truco…, pero te acercas un paso más y se desintegra en pinceladas. Abstracto, como de otro mundo. Una clase de belleza totalmente diferente y mucho más profunda. Es y no es.

Because—the line of beauty is the line of beauty. It doesn't matter if it's been through the Xerox machine a hundred times.

sen ona hangi yüzünü gösterirsen o da büyük bir samimiyet ve derinlik illüzyonu yaratarak sana deÄŸiÅŸtirmeye gerek bile duymadan senin ayn?n? yans?t?yor, oysa asl?nda kendisi t?pk? bir ayna kadar k?r?lgan ve s??.

Yes," said Julian, in a tone of voice which managed to convey at once both sympathy with and distaste for the Corcorans.