Show me a fantasy novel about Chernobyl - there isn't one! Because reality is more fantastic.

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Reality doesn't surprise me. But that's not true: I suddenly feel such a hunger for the "thing to really happen" that I cry out and bite into reality with my lacerating teeth. And afterwards give a sigh over the captive whose flesh I ate. And again, for a long while, I do without real reality and find comfort in living from my imagination.

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Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought... life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

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Everyone has his own reality in which, if one is not too cautious, timid or frightened, one swims. This is the only reality there is.

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Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

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You know what I've come to realize about you kindly rich liberals who own the world? Nothing is further from your understanding than the nature of reality.

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There's no remaking reality... Just take it as it comes. Hold your ground and take it as it comes. There's no other way.

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Nothing was, nothing will be, everything has reality and presence.

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The things we see are the same things that are within us. There is no reality except the one contained within us. That is why so many people live such an unreal life. They take the images outside them for reality and never allow the world within to assert itself.

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I realize now that the reality of things is not something you convey to people but something you make.

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