Stephen Crane Quotes

XXVIII "Truth," said a traveller, "Is a rock, a mighty fortress; "Often have I been to it, "Even to its highest tower, "From whence the world looks black." "Truth," said a traveller, "Is a breath, a wind, "A shadow, a phantom; "Long have I pursued it, "But never have I touched "The hem of its garment." And I believed the second traveller; For truth was to me A breath, a wind, A shadow, a phantom, And never had I touched The hem of its garment.

Who does understand life?

What, then is truth?... Truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that this is what they are.

As long as you seek for something, you will get the shadow of reality and not reality itself.

Democritus says, "But we know nothing really; for truth lies deep down".

Where doubt there truth is - 'tis her shadow.

A shadow of a reflection of an image of an illusion.

You want the truth, of course. You want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn’t necessarily get you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two equals the wind. The living bird is not its labeled bones.

There is a wonderful expression: seeing through a glass darkly. Everything, even life, is inevitably removed from you. You can't reach, or touch, the real. You just see reflections

Nothing in this world is real

Nothing is real.

Here then is the truth about the Truth; the Truth is not bridge, sturdy to every step, a marvel of bound planks and supports from the known into the unknown, but a surging sea of smashed wood, flotsam and drowning sailors.

This world may be only illusion -- but it's the only illusion we've got.

I secretly think reality exists so we can speculate about it.

In Shakespeare's world, characters cannot trust their senses. Is the ghost in Hamlet true and truthful, or is it a demon, tempting young Hamlet into murderous sin? Is Juliet dead or merely sleeping? Does Lear really stand at the edge of a great cliff? Or has the Fool deceived him to save his life?

That which is cannot be true.

I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.

What is reality, anyway? Just a collective hunch.

The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.

I realize that nothing's as it seems.

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

What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough; for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.

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

Reality is not always probable, or likely.

Reality leaves a lot to the imagination.