Illusions Of Grandeur Quotes

Noi fummo i Gattopardi, i Leoni; quelli che ci sostituiranno saranno gli sciacalletti, le iene; e tutti quanti gattopardi, sciacalli e pecore, continueremo a crederci il sale della terra." ("We were the Leopards, the Lions; those who'll take our place will be little jackals, hyenas; and the whole lot of us, Leopards, jackals, and sheep, we'll all go on thinking ourselves the salt of the earth.")

We also knew that it was in the nature of an empty stomach to produce illusions of grandeur.

Knowledge can be heady stuff, but it easily leads to an excess of zeal! -- to illusions of grandeur and a desire to impress others and achieve eminence . . . Our search for knowledge should be ceaseless, which means that it is open-ended, never resting on laurels, degrees, or past achievements.

At times like this you desperately need Art. You seek to reconnect with your spiritual illusions, and you wish fervently that something might rescue you from your biological destiny, so that all poetry and grandeur will not be cast out from the world

Maybe the stress of keeping up a two-story house, a bad marriage, and maintaining the illusion of grandeur overwhelmed their systems in similar ways to how poverty did mine.

Voyez-vous, lorsqu'on a trop réussi sa vie, On sent, -- n'ayant rien fait mon Dieu de vraiment mal! -- Mille petits dégoûts de soi, dont le total Ne fait pas un remords, mais une gêne obscure ; Et les manteaux de duc traînent dans leur fourrure, Pendant que des grandeurs on monte les degrés, Un bruit d'illusions sèches et de regrets, Comme, quand vous montez lentement vers ces portes, Votre robe de deuil traîne des feuilles mortes.

I have learned well the roles and scripts we people create for ourselves, and how afraid most people are of stepping outside them, more comfortable (even if more miserable) to keep their bubbles in place, even if those bubbles are delusions of grandeur that lead to illusions of impossibility, even when shown there is another way, a way that is more challenging, but also more gratifying.

I spoke of the tragic illusion of perpetuity, but, no, my friends, it is a comic one. The ludicrous plot in which we are all trapped. The ancient Greeks referred to plot as mythos, attributing the random drift of human affairs to some sort of unknowable but glimpsable divine motion, attempting to attach a certain grandeur to it, the delusion of meaning. But we are characters who do not exist, in a story composed by no one from nothing. Can anything be more pitiable? No wonder we all are grieving.

Living with illness or pain was part of my daily life. Part of the exhaustion. But why did my clients have these problems? It seemed like access to healthy foods, gym memberships, doc- tors, and all of that would keep a person fit and well. Maybe the stress of keeping up a two-story house, a bad marriage, and maintaining the illusion of grandeur overwhelmed their systems in similar ways to how poverty did mine.

The primary business of the Nova family, who controlled a magical media conglomerate, was beauty. It was grandeur. It was also all an illusion, every single bit of it, and Callum was the falsest illusion of all. He sold the commodity of vanity, and he was good at it. Better than good.

We come into the world naked, procreate and bring forth another life in our naked being and we leave this world behind in our nakedness. Yet, we all live in our grandeur naked illusions!

We cleave our way through the mountains until the interstate dips into a wide basin brimming with blue sky, broken by dusty roads and rocky saddles strung out along the southern horizon. This is our first real glimpse of the famous big-sky country to come, and I couldn't care less. For all its grandeur, the landscape does not move me. And why should it? The sky may be big, it may be blue and limitless and full of promise, but it's also really far away. Really, it's just an illusion. I've been wasting my time. We've all been wasting our time. What good is all this grandeur if it's impermanent, what good all of this promise if it's only fleeting? Who wants to live in a world where suffering is the only thing that lasts, a place where every single thing that ever meant the world to you can be stripped away in an instant? And it will be stripped away, so don't fool yourself. If you're lucky, your life will erode slowly with the ruinous effects of time or recede like the glaciers that carved this land, and you will be left alone to sift through the detritus. If you are unlucky, your world will be snatched out from beneath you like a rug, and you'll be left with nowhere to stand and nothing to stand on. Either way, you're screwed. So why bother? Why grunt and sweat and weep your way through the myriad obstacles, why love, dream, care, when you're only inviting disaster? I'm done answering the call of whippoorwills, the call of smiling faces and fireplaces and cozy rooms. You won't find me building any more nests among the rose blooms. Too many thorns.

The uncomfortable truth is that the majority of women are going to have high degrees of friction and projection when you meet them. With most of the women you meet, things are simply not going to work no matter what you do or say. This is to be expected. And this is fine. You are going to be incompatible with most of the women in the world and to hold any hopes of being highly compatible with most is an illusion of grandeur and a figment of your own narcissistic tendency.

We all say that this is the century of the common man, that he is the lord of the earth, the air and the water, and that on his decision hangs the historical fate of the nations. This proud picture of human grandeur is unfortunately an illusion only and is counterbalanced by a reality which is very different. In this reality man is the slave and victim of the machines that have conquered space and time for him; he is intimidated and endangered by the might of the war technique which is supposed to safeguard his physical existence; his spiritual and moral freedom, though guaranteed within limits in one half of his world, is threatened with chaotic disorientation, and in the other half it is abolished altogether. Finally, to add comedy to tragedy, this lord of the elements, this universal arbiter, hugs to his bosom notions which stamp his dignity as worthless and turn his autonomy into an absurdity. All his achievements and possessions do not make him bigger; on the contrary, they diminish him, as the fate of the factory worker under the rule of a ‘just’ distribution of goods clearly demonstrates.

She came from a land where revolutionary illusion had long since faded but where the thing he admired most in revolution remained: life on a large scale; a life of risk, daring, and the danger of death. Sabina had renewed his faith in the grandeur of human endeavour. Superimposing the painful drama of her country on her person, he found her even more beautiful.

Man’s life is a cheat and a disappointment; All things are unreal, Unreal or disappointing: The Catherine wheel, the pantomime cat, The prizes given at the children’s party, The prize awarded for the English Essay, The scholar’s degree, the statesman’s decoration. All things become less real, man passes From unreality to unreality. This man is obstinate, blind, intent On self-destruction, Passing from deception to deception, From grandeur to grandeur to final illusion, Lost in the wonder of his own greatness, The enemy of society, enemy of himself.

There is only one moment; its events are infinitely unfolding, increasing at every passing second—meaning that they were somehow compressed before. This moment was never smaller, but less beauty was exposed in the physical form, yet still this flower blooms. I think we tend to see time as the events alone; in this sense, we view objects as a means of measurement to time. But we forget the place of events in time is change. I am the measurement to my own happiness; time is the breadth of that beauty, and that beauty is the measurement of this moment’s grandeur. Somehow compressed, potential beauty was enfolded infinitely from the start of time, and now waits in vain for its fullest blossoming. The fact that there is a progression to time proves that time is not infinite; you can’t approach infinity. Time is more like a dot, expanding on a plane that is infinite; but that dot may as well not be growing, because the plane that its on is growing too. Stagnant, this explains what we call “now” that moment, ever unfolding; matter changes, but not the moment; the only proof that a past exists is our memories. What did it feel like to be four? Like now. My memories of a past are an illusion, because they take place in the now, the one moment.

On Make America Great Again: The agenda of a dead body coming back to life. Whenever you have the past (what is dead) presenting itself as an agenda to fix the present moment by taking us back—to the dead—you have contagion, pest, collusion, pollution, delusion—not illusion. Illusion is a hope. Delusion is a past illusion presenting itself as hope. Hope is something that has not happened yet, but when it happens, and the happening has already died and been buried—and other present moments have come forward and made us live other present moments—and a dead body—a dead moment—comes back presenting itself as if it were alive—and it is dead—and it doesn’t tell us that it is dead—that is not an illusion—that is a delusion.

Let your heart take in the grandeur of God’s wisdom and power. Let your soul rest in jaw-dropping awe of his majesty. Then remember your own smallness and frailty. Let yourself be humbled by how little you know and how few things you are able to do. Begin to embrace the utterly laughable irrationality of ever thinking that in any situation, location, or relationship it would ever be possible for you to be smarter than God. Laugh at the delusion of your own grandeur. Mock the illusion of your own glory. And in humble gratitude for grace that humbles, bow down and worship. After you have bowed down and worshiped, get up and serve this One of awesome glory. Refuse to question his will. Refuse to let yourself think that his boundaries are ill placed. Be thankful his majesty is your protection, his glory is your motivation, his grace is your help, and his wisdom is your direction. He is infinitely smarter than you and me in our most brilliant moments.

Perhaps she thought, this was the way everything in America actually was- all smoke and mirrors, with only illusions of grandeur.

why any entity, human or otherwise, would want to separate away from its Cosmic Self-cycle of Life and confine its existence into a lesser state of limitation culminating in a calculated extinction. Why accept so much less than its ultimate entitlements? Inevitably the answer is for the sake of short-term profits and pressurised powers which produce illusions of self-importance, grandeur, and other gratificatory experiences on low Life-levels. We human entities have freewill within our Self-circles how we distribute our energies around them. We instinctively know our Life-purpose to be the attainment of Identity as an Individual. The whole point is whether we are prepared to accept the long, difficult and demanding " Cosmic climb " leading steadily up the Ladder of Life toward our Ultimate Truth, or " fall for " an inferior imitation of such an achievement limited to life on this lower level.

People of the world say that, "Absolute Knowledge (Keval Gnan) is a thing to 'do'." No, it is something to be known! That which needs 'doing' is already taken care of by nature. 'To do' is itself an illusion. This energy is doing things for you with such grandeur! At least recognize this energy. God does not do anything of this sort at all. This is indeed the work of vyavasthit shakti (the energy of scientific circumstantial evidences).

Is the theory that lifeless, mindless atoms (obeying either deterministic laws or probabilistic laws of indeterminism) produce weird, unfathomable, ineffectual, pointless, mental illusions supposed to be more convincing than that we have genuine free will? The whole notion that a world made exclusively of matter, as materialist fundamentalists such as Harris insist, can suffer from illusions, delusions, hallucinations, mental illness, mental breakdowns, mental disorders, is so spectacularly silly that no sane person could ever take it seriously. Harris, in his pathological determination to rid us of free will, has posited instead a world of delusional atoms in need of psychiatric help! What, do electrons hallucinate? Do protons have delusions of grandeur? Do quarks imagine themselves free? Are 1D-strings narcissistic? If none of these things is true, how on earth does Sam Harris propose that if humans are made of atoms alone, we can suffer from such illusions? Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, and Harris doesn’t offer any evidence at all!

What was comic about Brian was his illusions of grandeur, even before he got famous. He thought it was his band for some weird reason. The first demonstration of Brian’s aspirations was the discovery on our first tour that he was getting five pounds more a week than the rest of us because he’d persuaded Eric Easton that he was our “leader.

What's this? Must I be held enthralled Again, cruel skies, to fleeting dreams Of grandeur Time will surely mock? Must I again be forced to glimpse Amid the shadows and the fog The majesty and faded pomp That waft inconstant on the wind? Must I again be left to face Life's disillusion or the risks To which man's limits are exposed From birth and never truly end? This cannot be. It cannot be. Behold me here, a slave again To fortune's whims. As I have learned That life is really just a dream, I say to you, false shadows, Go! My deadened senses know your schemes, To feign a body and a voice When voice and body both are shams. I've no desire for majesty That's phony or for pompous flam, Illusions of sheer fantasy That can't withstand the slightest breeze And dissipate entirely like The blossoms on an almond tree That bloom too early in the spring Without a hint to anyone. The beauty, light, and ornament Reflecting from their rosy buds Fade all too soon; these wilt and fall When but the gentlest gusts blow by. I know you all too well, I do, To fancy you'd act otherwise Toward other souls who likewise sleep. So let this vain pretending cease; I'm disabused of all I thought And know now life is but a dream

There was a kindliness about intoxication - there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings. After a few high-balls there was magic in the tall glowing Arabian night of the Bush Terminal Building - its summit a peak of sheer grandeur, gold and dreaming against the inaccessible sky. And Wall Street, the crass, the banal - again it was a triumph of gold, a gorgeous sentient spectacle; it was where the great kings kept the moment for their wars... ...The fruit of youth, or the grape, the transitory magic of the brief passage from darkness to darkness - the old illusion that truth and beauty were in some way entwined.

The very nature of cocaine brings with it illusions of grandeur and a numbing of the heart and Mick’s sense of detachment to those around him was like a shell that masked the gentle, sensitive person I loved.

Alice had no real illusions of grandeur, except to think that with enough persuasion she could convince anyone of anything.

Humans indulge the idea that we are the highest species, the top of the food chain, and that the main purpose of the biosphere is to support us. But is this “highest species” worth protecting? This illusion of biological grandeur is the cause of our suffering because of the egocentricity it covers up.

A subtle twist in the corridors of perception, I am not what the mirror reflects or the thoughts insist. Neither my own echo, nor the orders of others, I am a shadow of thoughts, the dance is yet to come. In the theater of the mind, perceptions come together, I am not what I claim to be or your judgments define me. A fleeting mirage, a game of illusion, I am shaped by reflections, a profound fusion. I am not my own thinker, nor a projection of your mind, I am a silent echo, a complex reflection. In a kaleidoscope of perspectives, I find, I am what I see in your eyes, connected. Yet beneath this mask, one truth stands clear, I am more than the whispers others can hear. Beyond the veils of grandeur of perception, I am the essence of myself, the splendor of the soul.

We all enjoy leaving the city and going to the countryside. The trees are so beautiful; the air is so fresh. For me, this is one of the great pleasures of life. In the countryside, I like to walk slowly in the woods, look deeply at the trees and flowers, and, when I have to pee, I can do so right in the open air. The fresh air is so much more pleasant than any bathroom in the city, especially some very smelly public restrooms. But I have to confess that for years I was uneasy about peeing in the woods. The moment I approached a tree, I felt so much respect for its beauty and grandeur that I couldn’t bring myself to pee right in front of it. It seemed impolite, even disrespectful. So I would walk somewhere else, but there was always another tree or bush, and I felt equally disrespectful there. We usually think of our bathroom at home, made of wood, tile, or cement, as inanimate and we have no problem peeing there. But after I studied the Diamond Sutra and I saw that wood, tile, and cement are also marvelous and animate, I began to even feel uncomfortable using my own bathroom. Then I had a realization. I realized that peeing is also a marvelous and wondrous reality, our gift to the universe. We only have to pee mindfully, with great respect for ourselves and whatever surroundings we are in. So now I can pee in nature, fully respectful of the trees, the bushes, and myself. Through studying the Diamond Sutra, I solved this dilemma, and I enjoy being in the countryside now more than ever.

Illusions of grandeur are one of the many hazards of inner emptiness.

The world is caught up by appearances, dazzled by their infinite variety, snared by illusion, endlessly distracted, and does not recognize me, the eternal principle that connects the humblest flower with the grandeur of the constellations.

The only way to maintain the illusion of this increasing sanctity is to veil, to sequester and to hide the women behind the anonymity of the high walls of Fatehpur Sikri and the grandeur of their titles.

To the obvious objection that the most cursory glance at human society showed some people to be happy while others were unhappy, Franklin rejoined that appearances deceived. “When we see riches, grandeur and a cheerful countenance, we easily imagine happiness accompanies them, when oftentimes ’tis quite otherwise; nor is a constantly sorrowful look, attended with continual complaints, an infallible indication of unhappiness.” Having disposed of happiness and unhappiness, Franklin attacked the notion of the immortality of the soul. He identified the soul with consciousness and the ability to treat ideas absorbed by the senses (“The soul is a mere power or faculty of contemplating on and comparing those ideas”), and then argued that when consciousness ended, the soul ceased to exist. Perhaps the soul in some way attached itself to a new body and new ideas. “But that will in no way concern us who are now living, for the identity will be lost; it is no longer that same self but a new being.” If temporal happiness was an illusion, and eternal happiness an impossibility, why should anyone strive for anything? Merely to avoid pain. The soul of an infant did not achieve consciousness (“it is as if it were not”) until it felt pain. Thus is the machine set on work; this is life. We are first moved by pain, and the whole succeeding course of our lives is but one continued series of action with a view to be freed from it. As fast as we have excluded one uneasiness another appears; otherwise the motion would cease. If a continual weight is not applied, the clock will stop. And as soon as the avenues of uneasiness to the soul are choked up or cut off, we are dead, we think and act no more. Like most such attempts to prove the unprovable, Franklin’s effort revealed more about the author than about the subject. Indeed, it revealed more about the author than he cared to have revealed. Although his employer, Palmer, was impressed by the ingenuity of Franklin’s argumentation, he decried Franklin’s conclusions as abominable. This reaction prompted Franklin to reconsider. In his autobiography he characterized various mistakes of his life as “errata”; regarding this episode he asserted, “My printing this pamphlet was another erratum.” Long before then he had burned all but the few copies already delivered to friends.

Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet—for me, anyway—all that’s worth living for lies in that charm? A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don’t get to choose our own hearts. We can’t make ourselves want what’s good for us or what’s good for other people. We don’t get to choose the people we are. Because—isn’t it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture—? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it’s a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what’s right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: “Be yourself.” “Follow your heart.” Only here’s what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can’t be trusted—? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight towards a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster? Is Kitsey right? If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement, the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or—like Boris—is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name? It’s not about outward appearances but inward significance. A grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur that the world doesn’t understand. That first glimpse of pure otherness, in whose presence you bloom out and out and out. A self one does not want. A heart one cannot help.