I am the angel of Reality, Seen for a moment standing in the door.
It is the imagination pressing back against the pressure of reality. It seems, in the last analysis, to have something to do with our self-preservation; and that, no doubt, is why the expression of it, the sound of its words, helps us to live our lives.
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
Realism is a corruption of reality.
Reality is not what it is. It consists of the many realities which it can be made into.
What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.
Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.
The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
The magnificent cause of being, The imagination, the one reality In this imagined world.
How cold the vacancy When the phantoms are gone and the shaken realist First sees reality. The mortal no Has its emptiness and tragic expirations.
The physical world is meaningless tonight And there is no other.
Of what is real I say, Is it the old, the roseate parent or The bride come jingling, kissed and cupped, or else The spirit and all ensigns of the self?
Poetry increases the feeling for reality.
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