Quotes About Illusion

Back to Jak— Why does everyone always want to go back to Jakku? There's nothing there! Sand and junk and rocks and sand and quicksand and sand—I don't get it!

Unlike in simulations, reality bled.

It is pathetic, though. Is it not? You and I, both in pursuit of a ghost

In a world of shifting past, these memories are wheat in wind, fleet in dreams, shapes in clouds. Events, once happened, lose reality, alter with a glance, a storm, a night. In time, the past never happened.

But what is the past? Could it be, the firmness of the past is just illusion? Could the past be a kaleidoscope, a pattern of images shift with each disturbance of a sudden breeze, a laugh, a thought? And if the shift is everywhere, how would we know?

A spinster sees the face of the young man who loved her in the mirror of her bedroom, on the ceiling of the bakery, on the surface of the lake, in the sky.

Causality within the universe is not fundamental," says Page. "It is an approximate concept derived from our experience with the world." Strict causality could be an illusion, a way for our brains, and our science, to make sense of the world.

Nite Owl II: But the country's disintegrating. What's happened to America? What's happened to the American dream? The Comedian: It came true. You're lookin' at it.

We have laboured long to build a heaven, only to find it populated with horrors.

I didn't put you in a prison, Evey. I just showed you the bars.

I sat on the bed. I looked at the Rorschach blot. I tried to make it look like a spreading tree, shadows pooled beneath it, but it didn't. It looked more like a dead cat I once found, the fat, glistening grubs writhing blindly, squirming over each other, frantically tunneling away from the light. But even that isn't the real horror. The horror is this: in the end, it is simply a picture of empty meaningless blackness.

Truth is a well-known pathological liar. It invariably turns out to be Fiction wearing a fancy frock. Self-proclaimed Fiction, on the other hand, is entirely honest. You can tell this, because it comes right out and says, I'm a Liar, right there on the dust jacket.

The world's a stage, & everything else is Vaudeville.

They claim their labours are to build a heaven yet their heaven is populated with horrors. Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. A clock without a craftsman. It's too late. Always has been, always will be…too late.

Through my blue fingers, pink grains are falling, haphazard, random, a disorganized stream of silicone that seems pregnant with the possibility of every conceivable shape… But this is illusion. Things have their shape in time, not space alone. Some marble blocks have statues within them, embedded in their future.

Roses are red Violets are blue Everything's possible Nothing is true.

Happiness is a prison, Evey. Happiness is the most insidious prison of all.

The clothes you're wearing, the room, the house, the city that you're in. Everything in it started out in the human imagination. Your lives, your personalities, your whole world. All invented. All made up. All the wars, the romances. The masterpieces and the machines. And there's nothing here but a funny little twist of amino acids, playing a marvelous game of pretend.

You see, there's the way things seemed and then there's the way things were and one is so often the total reverse of the other.

This is an IMAGINARY STORY...aren't they all?

Fiction and fact: only madmen and magistrates cannot discriminate between them.

Professor Einstein says that time differs from place to place. Can you imagine? If time is not true, what purpose have watchmakers, hein?

You see, Evey, all the world's a stage. And everything else... ... is vaudeville.

I too saw the wooden horse blocking the stars.