Quotes About Illusion

No fundo, acredite, o que somos de mais doloroso é o que não somos realmente, e as nossas maiores tragédias passam-se na ideia que fazemos de nós.

Sunt oameni fericiÅ£i fiindc? li s-a dat visul mincinos al imbecilit??ii.În vreme ce alÅ£ii,ca mine,au visuri lipsite de iluzii.

La relación que hay entre el sueño y la vida es la misma que hay entre lo que llamamos vida y lo que llamamos muerte. Estamos durmiendo, y esta vida es un sueño, no en un sentido metafórico o poético, sino en un sentido verdadero.

We secretly hate paradise.

Nunca amamos a alguien. Amamos, tan sólo, la idea que nos hacemos de alguien. Es a un concepto nuestro –en suma, es a nosotros mismo– a quien amamos.

La suprema gloria de todo esto, mi amor, estriba en pensar que tal vez nada de esto sea verdad, ni en yo creerlo verdadero.

Somos muerte. Esto, que consideramos vida, es el sueño de la vida real, la muerte de lo que verdaderamente somos. Los muertos nacen, no mueren. Están trocados, para nosotros, los mundos. Cuando creemos que vivimos, estamos muertos; vamos a vivir cuando estamos moribundos.

Let us watch Time painting the world and finding the resulting picture not only false but hollow.

How many things that we consider right or true are merely the vestiges of our dreams, the sleepwalking figures of our incomprehension! Does anyone know what's right or true? How many things we consider beautiful are merely the fashion of the day, the fiction of their time and place! How many things we consider ours are utterly foreign to our blood, we being merely their perfect mirrors or transparent wrappers!

Reason is the worst type of dream since it carries me into the dream of the regularity of life which does not exist, that is to say, it is doubly nothing.' 'But what does that mean?' Putting my hand on the other's shoulder and holding him in my arms, 'Aïe, my son, what does anything mean?

El sueño es la peor de las cocaínas, por ser la más natural de todas.

satisfied with dreams only when I'm not dreaming, satisfied with the world only when I'm dreaming far away from it. A swinging pendulum that goes back and forth, forever moving to arrive nowhere, eternally tethered to the twin fatality of a centre and a useless motion …

Sometimes in the evening on Summer days, Even when there's not a breeze at all, it seems Like there's a light breeze blowing for a minute But the trees are unmoving In every leaf of their leaves And our feelings have had an illusion, An illusion of what would please them... from "XLI

Mostrou-me como o sonho não consola, porque a vida dói mais quando se acorda

another day, life and its fictitious usefulness and vain activity;

We never love someone. We just love the idea we have of someone. It's a concept of ours - summing up, ourselves - that we love.

All of us are near-sighted, except on the inside. Only our dreaming sees with clear vision.

Ma evitando quel contatto mi sono isolato, e nell'isolarmi ho esacerbato la mia sensibilità già eccessiva. ... Non ho mai considerato il suicidio come una soluzione perché io odio la vita per l'amore che sento per essa. Mi ci è voluto del tempo a capire il penoso equivoco in cui vivo con me stesso. Una volta convinto mi sono addolorato, cosa che mi succede ogni volta che mi convinco di qualcosa, perché la convinzione per me è sempre la perdita di un'illusione.

Flashes of awareness that we live an illusion – that, and no more, is what distinguishes the greatest of men.

El mundo exterior existe como un actor en un escenario: está allí pero es otra cosa.

Man should not be able to see his own face. Nothing is more terrible than that. Nature gave him the gift of being unable either to see his face or to look into his own eyes. He could only see his own face in the waters of rivers and lakes. Even the posture he had to adopt to do so was symbolic. He had to bend down, to lower himself, in order to commit the ignominy of seeing his own face. The creator of the mirror poisoned the human soul.

The total snuffing out of life and the soul, the complete banishment of all beings and people, the night without memory or illusion, the absence of past and future .....

No nos gustan los espectáculos. Despreciamos a actores y danzarines. Todo espectáculo es la imitación degradada de lo que habría solamente que soñar.

En el fondo, lo que hay en nosotros de doloroso es lo que no somos en realidad y nuestras mayores tragedias corresponden a la idea que tenemos de nosotros mismos.