The economic anarchy of capitalist society as it exists today is, in my opinion, the real source of evil.
I take it to be true that pure thought can grasp the real, as the ancients had dreamed.
Matter is real to my senses, but they aren’t trustworthy. If Galileo or Copernicus had accepted what they saw, they would never have discovered the movement of the earth and planets.
Insofar as mathematics is true, it does not describe the real world. Insofar as it describes the real world, it is not true.
Quantum mechanics is certainly imposing. But an inner voice tells me that this is not yet the real thing. The theory says a lot, but does not bring us any closer to the secrets of the “Old One.” I, at any rate, am convinced that He is not playing at dice.
I believe that the first step in the setting of a real external world is the formation of the concept of bodily objects and of bodily objects of various kinds.
Only those who respect the personality of others can be of real use to them.
Thought is the strongest thing we have. Work done by true and profound thought – that is a real force.
The only ones who will find real happiness are those who find a way to serve.
But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.
In real life there is no such thing as the average man.
The horror no less than the charm of real life consists precisely in the recurrent actualization of the inconceivable.
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.