Real museums are places where Time is transformed into Space.
The real question is how much suffering we’ve caused our womenfolk by turning headscarves into symbols – and using women as pawns in a political game.
To read a novel is to wonder constantly, even at moments when we lose ourselves most deeply in the book: How much of this is fantasy, and how much is real?
Our thoughts and imagination are the only real limits to our possibilities.
If we get the good that belongs to us here and now, we must extract the sweetness of each passing minute while it is ours. That is the real art of living in the today.
Real happiness is so simple that most people do not recognize it. It is derived from the simplest, the quietest, the most unpretentious things in the world.
No young man starting in life could have better capital than plenty of friends. They will strengthen his credit, support him in every great effort, and make him what, unaided, he could never be. Friends of the right sort will help him more – to be happy and successful – than much money.
In my real movie-going days, which were the thirties, you didn’t stand in line. You strolled down the street and sallied into the theater at any hour of the day or night.
Criminals are never very amusing. It’s because they’re failures. Those who make real money aren’t counted as criminals. This is a class distinction, not an ethical problem.
Look at the real prodigies, and I look like nothing compared to them.
I don’t want to forgive myself. That’s why I hate psychoanalysis I think if you’re guilty of something you should live with it. Get rid of it – how can you get rid of a real guilt? I think people should live with it, face up to it.
There is only one real tragedy in a woman’s life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband.
Society exists only as a mental concept; in the real world there are only individuals.
The world seemed to me fine because you were in it, and goodness more real because you lived.
An acquaintance that begins with a compliment is sure to develop into a real friendship.
The only form of fiction in which real characters do not seem out of place is history. In novels they are detestable.
Then there was a man who said, ‘I never knew what real happiness was until I got married; by then it was too late’
Sin is the only real colour element left in modern life.
Nobody of any real culture, for instance, ever talks nowadays about the beauty of sunset. Sunsets are quite old fashioned. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism of temperament. Upon the other hand they go on.
It often happens that the real tragedies of life occur in such an inartistic manner that they hurt us by their crude violence, their absolute incoherence, their absurd want of meaning, their entire lack of style.