Voltaire Quotes

Nothing is real.

The difference between reality and unreality is that reality has so little to recommend it.

Illusion never changed into something real.

Illusion is no longer possible, because the real is no longer possible.

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.

All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.

As in The Lime Twig dream and illusion are right at the center of Charivari.

I tell you naught for your comfort Yea, naught for your desire, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher.

We're all living in some state of illusion, even if modestly.

There's so many different types of illusions; our lives are an illusion in a sense.

What you get is no longer what you see.

Illusion throughout is illusion. There is no end to it, just as there is no end to imagination.

Society? Can we trust us? Doubt it. We're probably not even real, as was revealed in the popular documentary The Matrix. That bloke next door? Made of pixels. Your co-workers? Pixels. You? One pixel. One measly pixel. You haven't even got shoes, for Christ's sake.

Did you ever think that maybe what you see isn't really what's true?

The world, life and human beings are only an illusion, a phantom, a dream image.

Numbers tend to give the impression that there's more order in the world than there is.

...it's just as bad to live in a place where what you do see isn't there as it is to live in one where what you don't see is.

Things are not at all what they seem to be: oh no, not at all.

If nothing is the way it seems, then this life is just a haunted dream.

The world is a lie...not you and me.

I suppose therefore that all things I see are illusions; I believe that nothing has ever existed of everything my lying memory tells me. I think I have no senses. I believe that body, shape, extension, motion, location are functions. What is there then that can be taken as true? Perhaps only this one thing, that nothing at all is certain.

Everything that falls upon the eye is apparition, a sheet dropped over the world's true workings. The nerves and the brain are tricked, and one is left with dreams that these specters loose their hands from ours and walk away, the curve of the back and the swing of the coat so familiar as to imply that they should be permanent fixtures of the world, when in fact nothing is more perishable.

Real’ is a dirty word in this place.

A lie was something that hadn't happened but might just as well have.