Quotes About Illusion

Women always think that when they have my shoes, my dress my hairdresser, my make-up, it will work the same way. They do not conceive of the witchcraft that is needed. They do not know that I am not beautiful but that I only appear to be at certain moments.

You haven't loved yet, he said. You've only been trying to love; beginning to love. Trust alone is not love, illusion is not love, desire alone is not love. All these were paths leading you out of yourself, it is true, and so you thought they led to another, but you never reached the other. You were only on the way.

I know that I go through life like a drunkard. I'm drunk on illusion. But no matter how drunk I am, there are things I can't help seeing, ferociously real things. I close my eyes, and I reel, I reel. I reel, I believe, I live in a fever and turmoil, I rise into ecstasy, but all the time there is the face of reality staring at me with ugly eyes. I know that if I open my eyes I will be intolerably hurt by the ugliness.

She wanted to be where she could not see herself. She wanted to be where everything did not happen twice. She walked, following the deep caverns of diminishing light. She touched ice and was bruised. To watch she must pause, and so what she caught was never the truth - the woman panting, dancing, weeping - it was only the woman who paused. The mirror was always one breath too late to catch the breathing.

Man needs reality, and woman illusion. Man needs illusion, too, but the woman who gives him illusion also gives him less reality—in proportion.

Eu sunt femeia care ofer? iluzie, care primeÅŸte imaginaÅ£ia b?rbatului. O situaÅ£ie pe care târfa o invidiaz?... Târfa domneÅŸte în realitate.

Too late for changes, too late perhaps for explanations and ideological webs, but the love goes on, the love goes on, blind to laws and warnings and even to wisdom and to fears. And whatever that love is, perhaps an illusion of a new love, I want it, I can't resist it, my whole being melts in one kiss, my knowledge melts, my fears melt, my blood dances, my legs open.

You haven't loved yet... You've only been trying to love; beginning to love. Trust alone is not love, desire alone is not love, illusion is not love, dreaming is not love. All these were paths leading you out of yourself, it is true, and so you thought they led to another, but you never reached the other. You were only on the way.

Films are like a dose of opium, then as you come out in the street it's a shock, and you are brutally awakened from your dream. But when you stay, you never wake up. The dream goes on working. I would fall asleep for a while and then see images on the screen, and I could not tell the difference between the film and a dream.

The duality which you divine is the despair, the bankruptcy of logic and philosophy; it is the illusion which holds the human planetary system together.

Es fácil crear la ilusión del amor. El otro te ayuda.

What I corrupted is what is called the truth in favour of a more marvellous world.

As if rising with her in his gyroscope of fantasy he took her to visit his collection of empty cages.

Man seems powerless to face the truth or the relative truth stripped of all adornment.

Women always think that when they have my shoes, my dress , my hairdresser, my make-up, it will all work the same way. They do not conceive of the witchcraft that is needed. They do not know that I am not beautiful but that I only appear to be at certain moments.

Cuando te embriaga un sentimiento, no importa cuál sea (ella está ahora ebria de un sentimiento imaginado), dejas de ver la realidad o la fealdad.

Worlds self-made and self-nourished are so full of ghosts and monsters.

Economy. Pleasure-pain bunkum.

Además, dado que es inteligente, comprende que a aquellos que son como yo no se les puede seducir sin ilusión. Y él no puede molestarse en crear ilusiones.

Henry no puede hacer que la ame menos, pero sí puede atormentarme haciendo que aparezca más irreal, más desinteresada, demostrando que June no existe, que sólo existe una imagen, inventada por nosotros, por la mente de Henry, y por mi poesía.

And it could be successfully done by the technical trick (a justifiable one!) of maintaining the illusion, for the reader, that he is perusing an intimate journal, but doing your story with infinite care, infinite pains.

I remember your phrase: "Only whores appreciate me." I wanted to say: you can only have blood-consciousness with whores, there is too much mind between us, too much literature, too much illusion—but then you denied there had been only mind. . . .

So illusion is delusion, and I have been Don Quixote, and nothing that I loved or dreamed existed. I am empty-handed now, a woman with an aching body. Lost. Weeping. Weeping. Saying yes to the analyst like a child.

That is why I always lie. I can't have a truthful relationship. Gore's idealization of me sets my pattern. I begin truthfully, but then I withhold what hurts him, what would destroy his illusion. I hide my psychoanalysis, my real age, my sexual needs, my past lovers and experience, my negro lover, and I give him his dream, his ideal woman. But where am I in the end?