There’s no one thing that is true. They’re all true.
No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.
Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self.
Love to his soul gave eyes; he knew things are not as they seem. The dream is his real life; the world around him is the dream.
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