Shoshana Zuboff Quotes

I've always been a big fan of Philip K. Dick; I love his work. There's a returning theme of identity and the fragility of our identity. Even when we are looking at what we think is a stark reality, it might actually be something completely different.

Watt's concern, deep as it appeared, was not after all what the figure was, in reality, but with what the figure appeared to be, in reality.

With clothing being designed that allows you to be hugged virtually, video conferencing becoming ever sharper, and our social and romantic lives increasingly taking place online, the gap between the physical and the virtual is getting ever smaller.

We all live every day in virtual environments, defined by our ideas.

No one in Silicon Valley loves virtual reality or believes in its future as much as Clay Bavor.

We're trending towards the holodeck. Eventually we'll have a system that's indistinguishable from reality.

In my long experience, one thing I know is that truth is elusive.

I don't know where the artificial stops and the real starts.

It's hard to tell that the world we live in is either a reality or a dream.

Reality is a fragile thing.

Between certainty and the real, an ancient enmity.

It was the hour in which objects lose the consistency of shadow that accompanies them during the night and gradually reacquire colors, but seem to cross meanwhile an uncertain limbo, faintly touched, just breathed on by light; the hour in which one is least certain of the world's existence.

This superficial blurring has something to do with the incapacity I have just mentioned. I can make no statement about reality clearer than my own relationship to reality; and this has a great deal to do with imprecision, uncertainty, transience, incompleteness, or whatever. But this doesn't explain the pictures. At best it explains what led to their being painted.

It's hard to tell the difference between sea and sky, between voyager and sea. Between reality and the workings of the heart.

But my dear man, reality is only a Rorschach ink-blot, you know.

The function of a writer is to make sense of life. It is such a mystery, it changes all the time, like the light.

Don't ignore the five senses in search of a sixth.

If all be a Dream, then he doth but dream that he makes the Question; and so it is not much matter that a waking Man should answer him.

For me, truth cracks open in the places where things do not cohere. That's how life is.

The line between outside and inside is fuzzier in fantasy. Maybe that's something people are looking for.

I often told the fanatics of realism that there is no such thing as realism in art: it only exists in the mind of the observer. Art is a symbol, a thing conjuring up reality in our mental image. That is why I don't see any contradiction between abstract and figurative art either.

Reality is, you know, the tip of an iceberg of irrationality that we've managed to drag ourselves up onto for a few panting moments before we slip back into the sea of the unreal.

The world in which we live is the only world about which our senses can testify.

We're making it up. The world, the universe, life, reality. Especially reality.

I, who have never heard a sound, tell you there is no silence, and I, who have never seen a ray of light, tell you there is no darkness.