Mirage Book Quotes

And I despise your books, I despise wisdom and the blessings of this world. It is all worthless, fleeting, illusory, and deceptive, like a mirage. You may be proud, wise, and fine, but death will wipe you off the face of the earth as though you were no more than mice burrowing under the floor, and your posterity, your history, your immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly globe.

Limitations are like mirages created by your own mind. When you realise that limitation do not exist, those around you will also feel it and allow you inside their space.

Personal branding is sales, because you’re selling an image of yourself, a mirage, and you are the product.

You're just another f*cking mirage on my road to hell" ~Johnathon Lee Ashfield, AKA Sade~

…Even the idea of a city never entered his mind. It was as if he had walked under the millimeter of haze just above the inked fibers of a map, that pure zone between land and chart, between distances and legends, between nature and storyteller. The place they had chosen to come to, to be their best selves, to be unconscious of ancestry. Here, apart from the sun compass and the odometer mileage, and the book, he was alone, his own invention. He knew during these times how the mirage worked, the fata morgana, for he was within it.

Before we knew it, we were walking along the breakwater until the whole city, shining with silence, speak out at our feet like the greatest mirage in the universe, emerging from the pool of the harbor waters. We sat on the edge of the jetty to gaze at the sight. "This city is a sorceress, you know, Daniel? It gets under your skin and steals your soul without you knowing it.

For me, Nuria Montfort was like a mirage: you don't question its veracity, you simply follow it until it vanishes or until it destroys you.

For the world is an ever-elusive and ever-disappointing mirage only from the standpoint of someone standing aside from it—as if it were quite other than himself—and then trying to grasp it. But a third response is possible. Not withdrawal, not stewardship on the hypothesis of a future reward, but the fullest collaboration with the world as a harmonious system of contained conflicts—based on the realization that the only real "I" is the whole endless process.

New York! I say New York, let black blood flow into your blood. Let it wash the rust from your steel joints, like an oil of life Let it give your bridges the curve of hips and supple vines. Now the ancient age returns, unity is restored, The recociliation of the Lion and Bull and Tree Idea links to action, the ear to the heart, sign to meaning. See your rivers stirring with musk alligators And sea cows with mirage eyes. No need to invent the Sirens. Just open your eyes to the April rainbow And your eyes, especially your ears, to God Who in one burst of saxophone laughter Created heaven and earth in six days, And on the seventh slept a deep Negro sleep.

Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for—ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman’s sake—for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.

I used to think that happiness, like God, was an idea weaker people were sold on, to manage the grief of a world with so much suffering. It is just easier, I thought, to decide that you are doing something wrong and you just need to buy the right thing, read the right book, find the right guru, or pray more to be happy than to accept that life is a great long heartbreak. Happiness is not what I imagined that mirage to be: an unending ecstasy or state of perpetual excitement. Not a high or a mirage, it is just being okay. My happiness is the absence of fear that there won't be enough -- enough money, enough power, enough security, enough of a cushion of these things to protect me from the everyday heartbreaks of being human. Heartbreak doesn't kill you. It changes you.

An inch long scar on my left wrist, reminded me of an enchanted world of love, which had vanished like a mirage.

Speaking of novels,’ I said, ‘you remember we decided once, you, your husband and I, that Proust’s rough masterpiece was a huge, ghoulish fairy tale, an asparagus dream, totally unconnected with any possible people in any historical France, a sexual travestissement and a colossal farce, the vocabulary of genius and its poetry, but no more, impossibly rude hostesses, please let me speak, and even ruder guests, mechanical Dostoevskian rows and Tolstoian nuances of snobbishness repeated and expanded to an unsufferable length, adorable seascapes, melting avenues, no, do not interrupt me, light and shade effects rivaling those of the greatest English poets, a flora of metaphors, described—by Cocteau, I think—as “a mirage of suspended gardens,” and, I have not yet finished, an absurd, rubber-and-wire romance between a blond young blackguard (the fictitious Marcel), and an improbable jeune fille who has a pasted-on bosom, Vronski’s (and Lyovin’s) thick neck, and a cupid’s buttocks for cheeks; but—and now let me finish sweetly—we were wrong, Sybil, we were wrong in denying our little beau ténébreux the capacity of evoking “human interest”: it is there, it is there—maybe a rather eighteenth-centuryish, or even seventeenth-centuryish, brand, but it is there. Please, dip or redip, spider, into this book [offering it], you will find a pretty marker in it bought in France, I want John to keep it. Au revoir, Sybil, I must go now. I think my telephone is ringing.

When she reached the house the sun had turned the morning air into a shimmering mirage of heat and dust devils. Hannah wished the rains had not finished so early. The land was already parched, stubbled with broken stalks of bleached grass.

Although I now call him ‘Sting’ to his face, I can still distinguish ‘Sting’ from ‘Gordon Sumner’.

I still hankered to be back on the racecourse, but getting the funds for yet another assault on the ring was proving difficult. Could I track Sting down?

When Sting arrived on Tyneside in November 1992, to receive his degree, he informed me that it was no longer me who was the skint one.

Social justice does not belong to the category of error but to that of nonsense, like the term 'a moral stone'. —F.A. Hayek, Law, Legislation and Liberty, Volume 2: The Mirage of Social Justice, 1976

A dessert to a deserter in the desert burst, "You trust your thirst. And you are too hot! You scream for ice cream. And believe it or not, I may not be your first. But I might be your lust! Give it a shot...

Whatever I did, even backed by Sting’s cash and moral support, it turned to shit. I had reached the end of the line. I became a statistic. Jim Berryman, actor, comedian, bookie and lounge-lizard, was on the dole!

Anyone wishing to buy the film rights for a rather large sum can contact my publisher and anyone wishing to put me in the top 100 wealthiest people in the UK, please send cheques or Postal Orders to me care of my publisher.

Your natural state has no relationship whatsoever with the religious states of bliss, beatitude and ecstasy; they lie within the field of experience. Those who have led man on his search for religiousness throughout the centuries have perhaps experienced those religious states. So can you. They are thought-induced states of being, and as they come, so do they go. Krishna Consciousness, Buddha Consciousness, Christ Consciousness, or what have you, are all trips in the wrong direction: they are all within the field of time. The timeless can never be experienced, can never be grasped, contained, much less given expression to, by any man. That beaten track will lead you nowhere. There is no oasis situated yonder; you are stuck with the mirage.

But modern man, unlike Christian [Pilgrim's Progress], has no book in his hand, he has no faith in Evangelist, and a heavenly city seems to him much more likely to be a mirage. The God-dimension is missing, and he does his thinking in a curious parody of Christian verities.

I turned on my heel and left the building. With only £4.76 in the bank, and my subscription to ‘Men Only’ due, things were looking bleak. Seeing that Keith Moore had apparently purloined Sting’s money, though at this time, he had not been yet convicted of the offence, it seemed to me that he was a better bet for a loan than Sting was.

Facts are delusion," he said. "They are a delusion of truth as a mirage is a delusion of sight. The real facts lie in people's minds and not in fingerprints and books and photographs and all the other physical things which are only the accidents that occur as a result of what lies in the mind. Truth is a matter of the mind and all else is only a blurred shadow to reconstruct the original image. Bit it is the image we are searching for.

Onomasticians and toponymists have a field day with this book. Of particular interest to language fiends, and to this translator, is Zamyatin’s relationship to the sounds of words. He told the artist Yuri Annenkov of the qualities he ascribes to certain sounds and letters. L is pale, cold, light blue, liquid, light. R is loud, bright, red, hot, fast. N is tender, snow, sky, night. D or T is stifling, grave, foggy, obscuring, stagnant. M is kind, soft, motherly, sea-like. A is wide, distant, ocean, misty mirage, breadth of scope. O is high, deep, sea-like, bosom. I is close, low, pressing.

He told me to call him Dazar Frihet. He said that our days are freedom. All of these days, the ones our feet carry us through, any one of them we can choose to be free, we just have to be willing to make it happen. He was such a sad young man, but he wasn’t sad for himself, he was the freest person I ever knew. No, he was sad for all the people he saw who were never free. All the people walking around thinking they were free, but were bonded to so many possessions and responsibilities, so much dispassion and anger, that freedom had become a mirage, like a mythical figure or a god, something they worshiped and followed, but never truly understood.

I don’t know when I started to realize that my country’s past was incomprehensible and obscure to me, a real shadowy terrain, nor can I remember the precise moment when all that i’d believed so trustworthy and predictable—the place I’d grown up, whose language I speak and customs I know, the place whose past I was taught in school and in university, whose present I have become accustomed to interpreting and pretending I understand—began to turn into a place of shadows out of whcih jumped horrible creatures as soon as we dropped our guard. With time I have come to think that this is the true reason why writers write aboutn the places of childhood and adolescence and even their early touth: you don’t write about what you know and understand, and much less do you write because you know and understand, but because you understand that all your knowledge and comprehension is false, a mirage and an illusion, so your books are not, could not be, more than elaborate displays of disorientation: extensive and multifarious declarations of preplexity. All that I thought was so clear, you then think, now turns out to be full of duplicities and hidden intentions, like a friend who betrays us. To that revelation, which is always annoying and often frankly painful, the writer responds in the only way one knows how: with a book. And that’s how you try to mitigate your disconcertion, reduce the space between what you don’t know and what can be known, and most of all resolve your profound disagreement with that unpredictable reality. “Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric,” wrote Yeats. “Out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” And what happens when both quarrels arise at the same time, when fighting with the world is a reflection or a transfiguration of the subterranean but constant confrontation you have with yourself? Then you write a book like the one I’m writing now, and blindly trust that the book will mean something to somebody else.

I believe that 'social justice' will ultimately be recognized as a will-o'-the-wisp which has lured men to abandon many of the values which in the past have inspired the development of civilization- an attempt to satisfy a craving inherited from the traditions of the small group but which is meaningless in the Great Society of free men. Unfortunately, this vague desire which has become one of the strongest bonds spurring people of good will to action, not only is bound to be disappointed. This would be sad enough. But, like most attempts to pursue an unattainable goal, the striving for it will also produce highly undesirable consequences, and in particular lead to the destruction of the indispensable environment in which the traditional moral values alone can flourish, namely personal freedom. —F.A. Hayek, Law, Legislation and Liberty, Volume 2: The Mirage of Social Justice, 1976

The wisest man I ever knew, Fermín Romero de Torres, had told me that there is no experience comparable to the first time a man undresses a woman. For all his wisdom, though he had not lied to me, he hadn't told me all the truth either. He hadn't told me anything about that strange trembling of the hands that turned every button, every zip, into a superhuman challenge. Nor had he told me about that bewitchment of pale, tremulous skin, that first brush of the lips, or about the mirage that seemed to shimmer in every pore of the skin. He didn't tell me any of that because he knew that the miracle happened only once and, when it did, it spoke in a language of secrets that, were they disclosed, would vanish again forever. A thousand times I've wanted to recover that first afternoon with Bea in the rambling house of Avenida del Tibidabo, when the sound of the rain washed the whole world away with it. A thousand times I've wished to return and lose myself in a memory from which I can rescue only one image stolen from the heat of the flames: Bea, naked and glistening with rain, lying by the fire, with open eyes that have followed me since that day. I leaned over her and passed the tips of my fingers over her belly. Bea lowered her eyelids and smiled, confident and strong...She was seventeen, her entire life shining on her lips.

When your mind parts from your body, the visions of pure reality will shine forth, shimmering like a summer mirage on the plains. They are subtle yet clear; distinctly experienced, they will fill you with fear and anxiety. Do not be fearful or afraid of them! Do not be anxious! They are the glowing radiance of your reality so recognize them as such! A great roar of noise will reverberate forth from within the light, like the sound of a thousand crashes of thunder rumbling at the same time. This is the natural sound of your reality so do not be fearful or afraid of it! Do not be anxious! You now have an astral body generated by the energy of your habitual tendencies, not a physical one of flesh and blood. No matter what sounds, dazzling colors, or radiant luminosity occur, they cannot hurt you or cause your death. Just recognize them as your own projections and all will be well. Know that this is the reality phase of death. No matter what religious practices you did during your life, if you have not received these instructions and do not recognize these experiences to be your own projections, then you will be terrified by the luminosity, alarmed by the sounds and frightened by the dazzling colors. If you don't comprehend the essential point of this instruction, you will wander lost in cyclical existence, no having understood the luminosity, the sounds, and dazzling colors for what they are.

Don’t leave town”—she’d said that right before she left, preceded by “person of interest.” And the girl’s face was there too. Amber Inglin’s pretty, scared face, dropped into his mind like a quarter into the coke machine Frank insisted they have for the crew. The girl, lying in his field, decay already starting—it was hot. Imagining flies attracted by the sweetish smell of recent death, he fought off nausea. The line of trees at the back of the eastern vineyard wavered into a strange, watery mirage. Or maybe she wasn’t there anymore—they’d have removed her by now, to the coroner’s, or a morgue.

Someone nudged her elbow, interrupting her reverie. “Hello? Anyone there?” The question came from Rylann’s roommate, Rae Mendoza, who was seated at her right. “I’m here. Just…picturing myself at the pool.” Rylann tried to hold on to the mirage for a few moments longer. “It’s sunny and seventy-five degrees. I’ve got some kind of tropical drink with one of those little umbrellas in it, and I’m reading a book—one I don’t have to highlight or outline in the margins.” “They make those kinds of books?” “If memory serves..." “I hate to burst the bubble on your daydream, but I’m pretty sure they don’t allow alcoholic drinks at IMPE,” Rae said, referring to the university’s Intramural Physical Education building, which housed said pool. Rylann waved off such pesky details. “I’ll throw a mai tai in my College of Law thermos and tell people that it’s iced tea. If campus security gives me any trouble, I’ll scare them off with my quasi-legal credentials and remind them of the Fourth Amendment’s prohibitions against illegal searches and seizures.” “Wow. Do you know how big of a law school geek you just sounded like?” Unfortunately, she did. “Do you think any of us will ever be normal again?” Rae considered this. “I’m told that somewhere around third year, we lose the urge to cite the Constitution in everyday conversation.” “That’s promising,” Rylann said. “But seeing how you’re more of a law geek than most, it might take you longer.” “Remember that conversation last night when I said I was going to miss you this summer? I take it back

Tis a dream that I in sadness Here am bound, the scorn of fate; 'Twas a dream that once a state I enjoyed of light and gladness. What is life? 'Tis but a madness. What is life? A thing that seems, A mirage that falsely gleams, Phantom joy, delusive rest, Since is life a dream at best, And even dreams themselves are dreams.

You will be obsessed with the past and future and will not just let the current moment be. This happens because the past offers you an identity and the future encompasses the prospect of fulfillment and salvation. This is a mirage.

mirage

A story is an endless labyrinth of words, images, and spirits, conjured up to show us the invisible truth about ourselves. A story is, after all, a conversation between the narrator and the reader, and just as narrators can only relate as far as their ability will permit, so too readers can only read as far as what is already written in their souls. This is the golden rule that sustains every artifice of paper and ink. Because when the lights go out, when the music ends and the stalls are empty again, the only thing that matters is the mirage that has been engraved in the theater of the imagination all readers hold in their mind. This, and the hope every maker of tales carries within: that readers will open their hearts to these little creatures made of ink and paper, and give them a part

I've been treading water for weeks only to realize the shore was a mirage

People are like old tools that are used and then thrown away or destroyed when they have no more purpose. I pity men like you who are burdened with morals and principles. You are doomed to chase a mirage, a perfect world that never was and never will be.

resumed my trek. Thanks to my magic, I could see. Some mirages are real enough to serve. But if things went to hell, or if it turned out I was a rotten sorcerer, well… I still had a flashlight.

It is merely paper money without the paper-electronic registration of units of paper money. It is a mirage-a chimeric representation of something that doesn't exist anywhere.

Chills ran up Lake’s spine like fingers. Visions of himself rising above everyone appeared before him like a mirage. Beautiful men catered to his needs, and he sat surrounded by piles of money. The last image was of a club located across the city—The Devil’s Lair. The door was open and a sign flashed, ‘Welcome’.

I feel so empty, wrung out, like I've been treading water for weeks only to realise the shore was a mirage.

Imam Mohammed al-Saud died in 1765, and in such a backwater would have remained as obscure as the village that he ruled had he not met Mohammed Abd al-Wahhab (1703–1792). Mohammed Abd al-Wahhab was something of an Arabian Martin Luther with a touch of John Knox thrown in. He was charismatic, possessed significant political skills, and saw himself as a religious reformer. Some would say he was a fanatic; he was certainly fervent in his beliefs and today would be called a fundamentalist. Like all fundamentalists, Abd al-Wahhab accepted a literal interpretation of his holy book and, like Luther, wanted to rid his religion of practices for which he could find no basis in scripture. Among these practices were: sorcery, idol worship, sun worship, fortune-telling, animism, the cult of ancestors, seeking intercession from saints, and even worshiping stones, tombs, and trees.3 Above all, he emphasized the unity of God (tawheed) and the avoidance of innovation (bid’a), by which he meant anything not found in the Quran or known to the Salaf, the pious ancestors of Islam’s first three generations from whom the term Salafi is derived.

Arbitrage is a "risk-free" profit, but for most of us, it might as well be a mirage. Markets are quick to eliminate such opportunities.

He had booked a suite at his favorite hotel, the One&Only Royal Mirage. As they arrived at the entrance, Amir noticed Tara's eyes swell in awe. The beautiful lobby with marble floors, the attire of the staff and the air of extravagance had his girl in a daze.

As an Italian, I’m used to heat, but I thought it had gotten even to me when a mirage—a Venus from a Renaissance painting—floated into the lecture hall.

The ass-driver disappeared like a mirage, which was a relief to Psyche and all the parents reading this book, because things were getting a little inappropriate there.

As she let the mirage of a distant ruined town lull her into a meditative state, she could detect both of them in her mind somehow, and they felt…similar. Both obsessive; both so committed to their mission that anything was permissible in completing it.

if you'd like to show your phone's display on that computer screen, X-Mirage will do the job for Apple (iPhone & iPad) and Reflector for Android.

The wisest man I ever knew, Fermín Romero de Torres, had told me that there is no experience in life comparable to the first time a man undresses a woman. For all his wisdom, though he had not lied to me, he hadn’t told me all the truth either. He hadn’t told me anything about that strange trembling of the hands that turned every button, every zip, into a superhuman challenge. Nor had he told me about that bewitchment of pale, tremulous skin, that first brush of the lips, or about the mirage that seemed to shimmer in every pore of the skin. He didn’t tell me any of that because he knew that the miracle happened only once and, when it did, it spoke in a language of secrets that, were they disclosed, would vanish again forever.

The US government spent $50 million on a “Jihad Literary Project,” which printed books for Afghan schoolchildren urging them to attack Soviet troops. These schoolbooks, paid for with American tax dollars, contained lines such as “Doing jihad against the infidel is our duty.”43 Mohammed Abd al-Wahhab was certainly smiling somewhere.

for a democracy to flourish, it must have an incorruptible bureaucracy.

In business, only a third of family firms make the transition to a second generation; less than ten percent survive into the third generation. The important, North African, political thinker Ibn Khaldun (1332–1406) predicted a similar cycle of rise and decline for all Arab dynasties. In his influential book the Muqaddimah or Introduction, with which King Salman is almost certainly familiar, Ibn Khaldun described how Arab dynasties usually last for three generations or 120 years—whichever came first.

I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidian mind of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, of all the blood they've shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened with men-

This is the golden rule that sustains every artifice of paper and ink. Because when the lights go out, when the music ends and the stalls are empty again, the only thing that matters is the mirage that has been engraved in the theater of the imagination all readers hold in their mind.

In the middle of a desert of ennui, an oasis of fear, or horror. There is no more lucid diagnosis of the illness of modern humanity. To break out of ennui, to escape from boredom, all we have at our disposal—and it’s not even automatically at our disposal, again we have to make an effort—is horror, in other words, evil. Either we live like zombies, like slaves fed on soma, or we become slave drivers, malignant individuals, like that guy who, after killing his wife and three children, said, as the sweat poured off him, that he felt strange, possessed by something he’d never known: freedom, and then he said that the victims had deserved it, although a few hours later, when he’d calmed down a bit, he also said that no one deserved to die so horribly, and added that he’d probably gone crazy and told the police not to listen to him. An oasis is always an oasis, especially if you come to it from a desert of boredom. In an oasis you can drink, eat, tend to your wounds, and rest, but if it’s an oasis of horror, if that’s the only sort there is, the traveler will be able to confirm, and this time irrefutably, that the flesh is sad, that a day comes when all the books have indeed been read, and that travel is the pursuit of a mirage. All the indications are that every oasis in existence has either attained or is drifting toward the condition of horror.

I have often looked at photographs of writers in their elegant book-lined studies and marvelled at what seems to me a mirage of sorts, the near-perfect alignment of seeming with being, the convincing illusion of mental processes on public display, as though writing a book were not the work of someone capable of all the shame and deviousness and cold-heartedness in the world.

Urquhart could somehow feel the glow on his skin as the hairs on his arms raised up and the thick pelt of man fur that covered his torso and back prickled as if the legs of a thousand insects were crawling on his body.

I sell them our tahini paste, our preserved lemons and our passion fruit jam, and they go away happy and Emine balances our books and I am happy too. There is nothing more to ask from life than this. All the rest - justice, retribution, the satisfaction of righting wrongs and correcting untruths - is a mirage. And if you chase a mirage where will you find yourself but the desert, with your feet sinking slowly in the sand ?