Fiction Vs Reality Quotes

That's what we storytellers do. We restore order with imagination. We instill hope again and again and again.

Fiction is the best kind of reality

If you make fiction just as valuable as reality, then any reality you don't need can be a delusion

Nobody wants to be a part of your story. Everybody wants you to elaborate on their fantasies.

Fiction writers, magicians, politicians and priests are the only people rewarded for entertaining us with their lies

One thing about writing this much… her brain never really shifted out of The World of Mages. When she sat down to write, she didn't have to wade back into the story slowly, waiting to get used to the temperature. She was just there, all the time. All day. Real life was something happening in her peripheral vision.

But life isn't neat the way a story is. And if you try to pretend it is, then you just make yourself unhappy, or screw yourself over.

El pueblo llano, cuando reza, pide lluvia, hijos sanos y un verano que no acabe jamás -replicó Ser Jorah-. No les importa que los grandes señores jueguen a su juego de tronos, mientras a ellos los dejen en paz. Pero nunca los dejan en paz.

Job understood that he was nothing more than God’s invention and so too was his suffering

I have a tendency to break rules and shake things up. I would say that with me people never know what is real and what is fiction. And I like that because reality is relative.

There are two rules for success... 1. Never reveal everything you know.

Sometimes even a monster is no monster. Sometimes it's beautiful and we fall in love with all that story, more than any film or TV program could ever hope to provide. Even after a thousand pages we don't want to leave the world the writer has made for us, or the make-believe people who live there.

The trouble with you, Charles, is that basically you despise women, whereas I, in spite of some appearances to the contrary, do not." "I don't despise women. I was in love with all Shakespeare's heroines before I was twelve." "But they don't exist, dear man, that's the point. They live in the never-never land of art, all tricked out in Shakespeare's wit and wisdom, and mock us from there, filling us with false hopes and empty dreams. The real thing is spite and lies and arguments about money.

Sometimes fiction was so powerful that it even had reverberations in the real world. When I went to London with Louise and Paul, we visited Sherlock Holmes' house. Tourists from all over the world were there to see this house. But Sherlock Holmes never existed. Yet people come to see his typewriter, his magnifying glass, his deerstalker, his furniture, his interior, in a reconstruction based on Conan Doyle's novels. People know this, yet they queue up and pay to visit a house that is just a meticulous recreation of a fiction.

I think in fiction he searches for the life he wishes he had.

In your Mind you live with n number of characters

It was a fictional story, but like any good fiction, without the need to adjust or conceal the truth, it actually might be the greatest expression of truth.

Inhumanity is part of humanity as much as suffering is a part of stories. Cruelty is written in the human script.

His suffering was no more real than he was.

Non-fiction is to theory as fiction is to experience.

Before accepting your guess just based on how you feel, let's admit we just don't know, and discover if it's real.

In order to write about real people - parents, children, lovers, friends, enemies, brothers, uncles, or the occasional passerby - it is necessary to make them fictional. I believe this is the only way of breathing life into them. To remember is to look around, again and again, equally astonished every time.

In the stories, there's always an answer at the end. Resolution. The detective confronts the killer; the killer admits it. We know for sure. But out here - it's not like that. Out here, maybe somebody goes to jail. Maybe somebody doesn't. But we never know the truth. The real, whole, definite truth. It's impossible.

Who makes things up? Who tells the real story? We all turn our lives into stories. It is a defining characteristic of our species. We retell our experiences. We quickly learn what parts are interesting to our listeners and what parts lag, and we shape our narratives accordingly. It doesn't mean we aren't telling the truth; we've simply learned which parts to leave out. Every time we tell the story again, we don't go back to the original event and start from scratch, we go back to the last time we told the story. It's the story we shape and improve on, we don't change what happened. This is also a way we have of protecting ourselves. It would be too painful to relive a childhood illness or the death of your best friend every time you had to speak of it. By telling the story from the story, instead of from the actual events, we are able to distance ourselves from our suffering. It also gives us the chance to make the story something people can hear.

Murder is something you read about, listen to on a wireless, see at the pictures, discover in print every Sunday morning when you open your newspaper. But you never come across in your own everyday life. It happens to other people, maybe in other districts, but it doesn't happen in your family, or among your neighbours, or down your street.

Today, I wanted to be a bit aggressive and sexy . . . to be a provoking woman who remains a ghost in the hearts of men, so vivid that they could never forget. And this ghost shines with different colours in their imagination every time . . . I have always been good at being a muse. I adored this role and have always kept improving this image.

Books were another form of fog, dipping down to infiltrate and insidiously undermine the authoritative, official version, showing it up for the sham it was. He knew the stories were all made up, the characters puppets, the outcome predetermined, so why did they seem more real than reality? And why was no one else shocked by this gleeful scandal?

Science fiction invites the writer to grandly explore alternative worlds and pose questions about meaning and destiny. Inventing plausible new realities is what the genre is all about. One starts from a hypothesis and then builds out the logic, adding detail and incident to give substance to imaginary structures. In that respect, science fiction and theology have much in common.

The Trump administration would do well to hire some fiction writers. Those of us who write horror are the cons. Those writing any other genre are the pros. Either way, we know how the story will end.

Fantasy is healthy when practiced with moderation. Too much fiction paralyzes responsibility and reason.

Fantasy and Responsibility (The Sonnet) Fantasy is good so long as it doesn't make us, Oblivious to our responsibility of reality. Imagination expands the mind for sure, Only when it empowers our acts of accountability. Growing up in India, I did not have superman, But I did indulge religiously in some shaktimaan. I don't know whether it influenced my making, But it sure did fill my childhood with fascination. People draw inspiration from different places, That's a normal tenet of the mind, not a violation. But inspiration is inspiration only when it leads, To collective uplift, otherwise it's just delusion. Fantasy is healthy when practiced with moderation. Too much fiction paralyzes responsibility and reason.

Soon our culture's oldest dreams will be made real. Even the thought of sending a kind of flying craft to the moon is no longer nothing more than a child's fantasy. At this moment in the cities below us, the first mechanical men are being constructed that will have the capability to pilot the ship on its maiden voyage. But no one has asked if this dream we've had for so long will lose its value once it's realized. What will happen when those mechanical men step out of their ship and onto the surface of this moon, which has served humanity for thousands of years as our principal icon of love and madness? When they touch their hands to the ground and perform their relentless analyses and find no measurable miracles, but a dead gray world of rocks and dust? When they discover that it was the strength of millions of boyhood daydreams that kept the moon aloft, and that without them that murdered world will fall, spiraling slowly down and crashing into the open sea?