To mention a loved object, a person, or a place to someone else is to invest that object with reality.

What was once called the objective world is a sort of Rorschach ink blot, into which each culture, each system of science and religion, each type of personality, reads a meaning only remotely derived from the shape and color of the blot itself.

The past exists only in our memories, the future only in our plans. The present is our only reality.

More wisdom is latent in things-as-they-are than in all the words men use.

Monotheism owes its existence not to philosophic speculation about the nature of reality or knowledge or virtue, but to acceptance of reality identified with a supreme being.

Images are more real than anyone could have supposed.

In the American metaphysic, reality is always material reality, hard, resistant, unformed, impenetrable, and unpleasant.

Cloquet hated reality but he realized it was still the only place to get a good steak.

What I'm above all primarily concerned with is the substance of life, the pith of reality. If I had to sum up my work, I suppose that's it really: I'm taking the pith out of reality.

Since we cannot change reality, let us change the eyes with which we see reality.