The color of truth is grey.
...when two opposite points of view are expressed with equal intensity, the truth does not necessarily lie exactly halfway between them. It is possible for one side to be simply wrong.
If you never tell anyone the truth about yourself, eventually you start to forget. The love, the heartbreak, the joy, the despair, the things I did that were good, the things I did that were shameful--if I kept them all inside, my memories of them would start to disappear. And then I would disappear.
Belief can be manipulated. Only knowledge is dangerous.
Children know perfectly well that unicorns aren’t real, but they also know that books about unicorns, if they are good books, are true books.
What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.
This is one more piece of advice I have for you: don't get impatient. Even if things are so tangled up you can't do anything, don't get desperate or blow a fuse and start yanking on one particular thread before it's ready to come undone. You have to realize it's going to be a long process and that you'll work on things slowly, one at a time.
Truth is a matter of the imagination.
I was in my bed trying to figure out why sometimes you can wake up and go back to sleep and other times you can't
What an odd thing a diary is: the things you omit are more important than those you put in.
Nothing is yet in its true form.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns. These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is – I repeat it – a difference; and it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of separation between them.
To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.
In the calculus of feelings, you never really know how one person's absence will affect you more than another's.
Writing fiction is the act of weaving a series of lies to arrive at a greater truth.
A boy may be as disagreeable as he pleases, but when a girl refuses to crap sunshine on command, the world mutters darkly about her moods.
The truth is always an abyss. One must — as in a swimming pool — dare to dive from the quivering springboard of trivial everyday experience and sink into the depths, in order to later rise again — laughing and fighting for breath — to the now doubly illuminated surface of things.
In the end, Leck should have stuck to his lies. For it was the truth he almost told that killed him.
A lie can run round the world before the truth has got its boots on.
Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.” Say not, “I have found the path of the soul.” Say rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.” For the soul walks upon all paths. The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed. The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.
