When truth is nothing but truth, it’s unnatural, it’s an abstraction that resembles nothing in the real world.
Real progress is progress in charity, all other advances being secondary thereto.
Real love, after all, was worth the price you paid, however briefly it might last.
Do people choose the art that inspires them – do they think it over, decide they might prefer the fabulous to the real? For me, it was those early readings of fairy tales that made me who I was as a reader and, later on, as a storyteller.
Fairytales were maps formed of blood and hair and bones; they were the knots of the sub-conscious unwound. Every word in every tale was real and as true as apples and stones. They all led to the story inside the story.
I think love is a huge factor in fiction and in real life. Is there a risk? Always. In fiction and in life.
I don’t think I make much of a distinction between the ‘real’ and the ‘fantastic.’ They both seem to be threads in the same cloth as far as I’m concerned.
After a while, the characters I’m writing begin to feel real to me. That’s when I know I’m heading in the right direction.
We had to survive to remember. Otherwise everything we were would disappear. Those people we loved would fade as though we’d never loved them, as if they’d never walked and talked and burned, forgetting them was the real evil. That was the hole of darkness.
I can be almost terminally grief-stricken because things are so dire, but at the same, there’s a real lightheartednes s about just the recoverability of life, of how things change, how they’re not the same, ever again.
The real wonders of life lie in the depths. Exploring the depths for truths is the real wonder which the child and the artist know: magic and power lie in truth.
My life is not possible to tell. I change every day, change my patterns, my concepts, my interpretations. I am a series of moods and sensations. I play a thousand roles. I weep when I find others play them for me. My real self is unknown. My work is merely an essence of this vast and deep adventure.
I seek the real stuff of life. Profound drama.
The real trick is to stay alive as long as you live.
The real question is why are millions of people so unhappy, so bored, so unfulfilled, that they are willing to drink, snort, inject or inhale any substance that might blot out reality and give them a bit of temporary relief.
I never utter my real feelings about anything. My lighter, superficial side will always be too quick for the deeper side of me, and that’s why it always wins.
The reason for my starting a diary is that I have no real friend.
He clings to his solitude, to his affected indifference and his grown-up ways, but it’s just an act, so as never, never to show his real feelings.
Man’s best friend is one who wishes well to the object of his wish for his sake, even if no one is to know of it.
Between friends there is no need of justice.