Theodor W. Adorno Quotes

There is that smaller world which is the stage, and that larger stage which is the world.

A play visibly represents pure existing.

The world's a stage, & everything else is Vaudeville.

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.

All the world's a stage.

All the world is not, of course, a stage, but the crucial ways in which it isn’t are not easy to specify

Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.

And to Shakespeare I owe my vision of the world as a theater, wherein all humans are acting out their parts.

There's a way in which 'The Illusion' is a play about the theater.

There is no such thing as death; life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves.

There's theater in life, obviously, and there's life in theater.

The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.

We all have our secrets, and we all have our deceptions. Acting, at its best, is all about deceiving people, and this makes it all the more interesting to us.

Robert Duvall taught me years ago. He said, "You know theatre is not real. I don't like plays." You know, he doesn't like plays. And I agree with him in certain ways, you know. They can be fun. I don't mind going to see them. I went and saw Phantom of the Opera. I thought hey, that's cool. Look at the mask and all that.

Life is a theatre set in which there are but few practicable entrances.

Our whole life is like a play.

In all aspects of life, we take on a part and an appearance to seem to be what we wish to be--and thus the world is merely composed of actors.

The greatest truths are the simplest things in the world, simple as your own existence.

Ideas too are a life and a world.

. . . life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which . . .

Everything of this life as a mortal is fiction. It seems real, but...

This world is nothing. An illusion. Death is the release.

Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue. . . .

Is all our Life, then but a dream Seen faintly in the golden gleam Athwart Time's dark resistless stream?