reality

Every novel is an ideal plane inserted into the realm of reality.

We live by a perceptual "map" which is never reality itself.

Love is reality without judgement

Words fail to describewhat i feel anymore.Let me be numb for a while,let me be sore.

I mean that certain fictions, chiefly Conan Doyle, Stevenson, but many others also, laid out a template that was more powerful than any local documentary account - the presences that they created, or "figures" if you prefer it, like Rabbi Loew's Golem, became too much and too fast to be contained within the conventional limits of that fiction. They got out into the stream of time, the ether; they escaped into the labyrinth. They achieved an independent existence. The writers were mediums; they articulated, they gave a shape to some pattern of energy that was already present. They got in on the curve of time, so that by writing, by holding off the inhibiting reflex of the rational mind, they were able to propose a text that was prophetic.

Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

You have to conquer every mountain to realize the dream.

What one exorcises in this [imagery] way at little cost, and for the price of a few tears, will never in effect be reproduced

Be thankful for what you have and you will have more. Thinking of what you don__ have will only keep bringing you nothing.

Sometimes we are that fly in the house, that thinks it sees an open window. So it crawls to, or flies head-on into clear glass. At times getting stuck between the storm and pane, it dies in the windowsill under a tormenting, hot sun.

There was a duplication of myself involved, perhaps even a triplication.There was I who was writing. There was I whom I could remember. And there was I of whom I wrote, the protagonist of the story.

He comes.And he comesloadedwith noise pollution.If I ever prayed for anything,it was for a manto shut up.

Perhaps he was probing the enigma of why men fall in love with their dreams, which are then so destroyed by harsh realities that their dreamers become cuckolded by their own illusions. Perhaps...

When you listen to radio you are a witness of the everlasting war between idea and appearance, between time and eternity, between the human and the divine. Exactly, my dear sir, as the radio for ten minutes together projects the most lovely music ithout regard into the most impossible places, into respectable drawing rooms and attics and into the midst of chattering, guzzling, yawning and sleeping listeners, and exactly as it strips this music of its sensuous beauty, spoils and scratches and beslims it and yet cannot altogether destroy its spirit, just so does life, the so-called reality, deal with the sublime picture-play of the world and make a hurley-burley of it.

As much as I had always longed to be freed of my duties and obligations, being released from such bonds was as much a severing as an emancipation.

A question that always haunts me. Why can__ people just be real? It__ easier being real than pretend being real. Give yourself a chance.

..if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was ahurricane.

Our thoughts affect our agreement with reality, our story we tell ourselves. IF you want to change your story, start with your thoughts.