Quotes About Illusion

and that's why it's so hard for them when they discover that this equality they've been told about is a carrot on a stick – something that's dangled in front of their noses to keep them going, but always kept just out of reach.

But if it were true that his life had somehow been molded by acts of power of which he was unaware—then it would follow that he had never acted of his own volition; never had a moment of true self-consciousness. Everything he had ever assumed about himself was a lie, an illusion. And if this were so, how was he to find himself now?

But if it were true that his life had somehow been molded by acts of power of which he was unaware—then it would follow that he had never acted of his own volition; never had a moment of true self-consciousness. Everything he had ever assumed about himself was a lie, an illusion. And if this were so, how was he to find himself now? CHAPTER 37 When

Memory deludes me. I have just remembered something that I completely forgot after it happened. I remembered it again when I was about sixteen, and then I forgot it again. And this morning I remembered not the event itself but the previous recollection, which itself was more than forty years ago, as though an old moon were reflected in a windowpane from which it was reflected in a lake, from where memory draws not the reflection itself, which no longer exists, but only its whitened bones.

Begreppet 'lycklig i alla sina dagar', illusionen om bestående lycka, är i själva verket en oxymoron. Antingen konstant lycka eller klimax. Evig lycka är inte någon lycka, på samma sätt som evig orgasm inte alls är någon orgasm.

lo que ocurre ahora es que todo el mundo en este país exclama El rey está desnudo y quizás por eso el niño deba encontrar un grito nuevo

Without stories, we'd have even more trouble recognizing what's real.

We are living in a world where everything is false. The society is like bright paint applied on top of rotten wood.

I have loved works of fiction precisely for their illusions, for the author's sleight-of-hand in showing me the magic, what appeared in the right hand but not in the left...

I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control.

I felt like a rich vagabond who had passed through the world paving my way with gold fairy dust, then realizing too late that the path disintegrated as soon as I passed over it.

I felt foolish and tired, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind to discover there was no one there.

To keep false hopes is to prolong misery.

My mother believed in God's will for many years. It was as if she had turned on a celestial faucet and goodness kept pouring out. She said it was faith that kept all these good things coming our way, only I thought she said fate, because she couldn't pronounce the th sound in faith. And later, I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control.

And later, I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control. i found out the most I could have was hope, and with that I was not denying any possibility, good or bad.

I think about our marriage. The weft of our seventeen years together was so easily torn apart. Our love was as ordinary as the identical welcome mats found in the suburbs we grew up in. The fact that our bodies, our thoughts, our hearts had once moved in rhythm with each other had only fooled us into thinking we were special.

Forget about love. You will receive that many times, but none of it is lasting.

The mind fools the eye. The eye makes us fools.

Kwan saw what she believed. I saw what I didn't want to believe.

Our love of each other was like two long shadows kissing without hope of reality.

When others asked the truth of me, I was convinced it was not the truth they wanted, but an illusion they could bear to live with.

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, & you believe you are living.

At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.

She had lost herself somewhere along the frontier between her inventions, her stories, her fantasies and her true self. The boundaries had become effaced, the tracks lost, she had walked into pure chaos, and not a chaos which carried her like the galloping of romantic riders in operas and legends, but which suddenly revealed the stage props: a papier-mâché horse.