Quotes About Illusion

Because on some level, even though it never turns out to be true, and even though I should know better, I still expect life to be like the movies.

Dances are generally more fun to think about and get ready for than they actually are when you get there.

I don't even have my real face anymore, I don't even know who I see in the mirror.

I seem to remember there was some hocus-pocus with that one." "You mean hanky-panky!" shouted Ruth. "There was hanky panky.

WELCOME TO THE beautiful Sinclair family. No one is a criminal. No one is an addict. No one is a failure.

Once you are there, the rest of the universe seems nothing but an unpleasant dream.

But I know Downyflake only makes cake doughnuts. No glazed. No Boston cream. No jelly. Why are they lying?

WELCOME TO THE beautiful Sinclair family. No one is a criminal. No one is an addict. No one is a failure. The Sinclairs are athletic,

I've been a little sad that so many girls love Tommy so much. Hello!?! Tommy Hazard and Prince Charming - neither one exists!

Invisible Man. A Passage to India. The Magnificent Ambersons.

God: a disease we imagine we are cured of because no one dies of it nowadays.

It was the hour of unreality.

Bad dreams? -Just dreams.

Ever since that day, success in politics has meant that people who aspired to public office had to give the illusion of democracy while delivering the reality of oligarchic rule.

When I'm not facing the face that I fancy,I fancy the face I face.

It's only a paper moon,Sailing over a cardboard sea,But it wouldn't be make-believeIf you believed in me.

Anyone who can handle a needle convincingly can make us see a thread which is not there.

For that little incident had impressed the three women more than might be supposed. It remained as a goblin footfall, as a hint that all is not for the best in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath these superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy, who has recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left no address behind him, and no name.

Disdaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much as she misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for weakness. He supposed her "as clever as they make 'em," but no more, not realizing that she was penetrating to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she found there.

In every remark he found a meaning, but not always the true meaning, and his life, though vivid, was largely a dream.

It was the hour of unreality—the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are real.

For human intercourse, as soon as we look at it for its own sake and not as a social adjunct, is seen to be haunted by a spectre. We cannot understand each other, except in a rough and ready way; we cannot reveal ourselves, even when we want to; what we call intimacy is only a makeshift; perfect knowledge is an illusion.

How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself—hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth—their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air.

And that is why novels, even when they are about wicked people, can solace us: they suggest a more comprehensible and thus more manageable human race, they give us the illusion of perspicacity and of power.