Quotes About Illusion

escaped at last into a world of pure illusion in which, safe from any harm, she moved, lived, from attitude to attitude

Dajem ti sat, ne da se prise?aš vremena, ve? da bi ga ponekad mogao na trenutak zaboraviti, da ne izgubiš dah pokušavaju?i da ga osvojiš. Jer bitke se nikad ne dobijaju. ?ak se i ne biju. Bojno polje samo otkriva ?oveku njegovu ludost i o?ajanje, a pobeda je uvek samo iluzija filozofa i glupaka... Moglo bi se pomisliti da ?e se nesre?a jednog dana umoriti, ali onda samo vreme postaje naša nesre?a.

Porque Padre decía que los relojes asesinan el tiempo. Él dijo que el tiempo está muerto mientras es recontado por el tictac de las ruedecillas; sólo al detenerse el reloj vuelve el tiempo a la vida. Las manecillas estaban extendidas, ligeramente inclinadas haciendo un leve ángulo, como una gaviota suspendida en el viento.

Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. Dalton Shirts. I thought all the time they were khaki, army issue khaki, until I saw they were of heavy Chinese silk or finest flannel because they made his face so brown his eyes so blue. Dalton Ames. It just missed gentility. Theatrical fixture. Just papier-mache, then touch. Oh. Asbestos. Not quite bronze.

Te lo doy, no para que recuerdes el tiempo, sino para que consigas olvidarlo de vez en cuando durante un momento y no malgastes todo tu aliento intentando conquistarlo. Porque ninguna batalla se ganas jamás, como él decía Ni tan siquiera se libra. Sólo el campo de batalla revela al hombre su propia locura y desesperación, y la victoria es ilusión de filósofos e idiotas.

Al ÅŸunu, diyorum, çikolatay? ona vererek. ÖnlüÄŸümü ç?kar?p o yana geçtim. Baya?? güzeldi. Hani ÅŸu kara gözlüler vard?r ya, bir aldatacak olsan b?ça?? saplayacak gibi görünürler, onlardand?.

I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it. Because no battle is ever won he said. They are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

Te lo doy, no para que recuerdes el tiempo, sino para que consigas olvidarlo de vez en cuando durante un momento y no malgastes todo tu aliento intentando conquistarlo. Porque ninguna batalla se gana jamás, como él decía. Ni tan siquiera se libra. Sólo el campo de batalla revela al hombre su propia locura y desesperación, y la victoria es ilusión de filósofos e idiotas.

Los hombres no son más que muñecos rellenos de aserrín recogido en los montones de basura donde todos los muñecos anteriores había sido tirados.

Los hombres no son más que muñecos rellenos de aserrín recogido en los montones de basura donde todos los muñecos anteriores habían sido tirados.

What greater comfort does time afford, than the objects of terror re-encountered, and their fraudulence exposed in the flash of reason?

Go out among them and tell them that their nostalgia for places they have never been is sex

He began to suspect another, deeper layer of time, a time of stone and cloud and tree to which the time of clocks and calendars was a gross mockery cobbled up by savages. He felt the ways of men fall from him like sundered shackles.

You get a picture of things in your head and your picture is all you see. You don't know me. You don't even know yourself. All you know is your little picture of how things ought to be, and that's the way you think they are.

Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation.

Fiction is an illusion wrought with many small, conventionally symbolic marks, triggering visions in the minds of others

His vision crawled with ghost hieroglyphs, translucent lines of symbols arranging themselves against the neutral backdrop of the bunker wall. He looked at the backs of his hands, saw faint neon molecules crawling beneath the skin, ordered by the unknowable code. He raised his right hand and moved it experimentally. It left a faint, fading trail of strobed afterimages.

Hollis blew gently on the thin tan island of foam afloat in her half pint of Guinness, to see it move, then drank some. Always a mysterious beverage to her. Unsure why she'd asked for it. She liked the way it looked more than how it tasted. How would it taste, she wondered, if it tasted the way she thought it looked? No idea.

Know what's worse than imaginary, Leon? What? Half-imaginary.

Nothing before the 2020s has ever seemed entirely real, to me. Hard to imagine they weren't constantly happy, given all they still had. Tigers, for instance.

The men in bars, who explain every dark secret of this world, Tito, have you noticed, no secret requires more than three drinks to explain. Who killed the Kennedys? Three drinks. America's real motive in Iraq? Three drinks. The three-drink answers can never contain the truth. The

Something stilled the part of him that knitted narrative, that grew the underbrush of lies in which he lived.

You saw a double. A hologram perhaps. Many things, Marly, are perpetrated in my name. Aspects of my wealth have become autonomous, by degrees; at times they even war with one another. Rebellion in the fiscal extremities.

None of their voices were real, even; it was all digital stuff. God-eater could just as well be a woman, or three different people, or all three of the ones he'd seen there might've been just one person.