Nights through dreams tell the myths forgotten by the day.

There were as many truths - overlapping, stewed together - as there were tellers. The truth mattered less than the story's life. A story forgotten died. A story remembered not only lived, but grew.

I incline to the belief that in the light of eternity all our truths are shadows, and that the very truth we shall only know hereafter. Yet I think that every truth in its own place is a substance, though it may be a shadow in another place. And I think that all such shadows have value for our souls, for each is a true shadow, as the substance is a true substance.

Truths are illlusions which we have forgotten are illusions.

Some stories are true that never happened.

Just as real events are forgotten, some that never were can be in our memories as if they happened.

But are not all facts dreams as soon as we put them behind us?

fiction is founded on truth... unless things did happen, people couldn't think of them.

Here is the shadow of truth, for only the shadow is true.

The repeated lies become history, but they don't necessarily become the truth.

There are some things one remembers even though they may never have happened.

Truth is a matter of the imagination. The soundest fact may fail or prevail in the style of its telling: like that singular organic jewel of our seas, which grows brighter as one woman wears it and, worn by another, dulls and goes to dust. Facts are no more solid, coherent, round, and real than pearls are.

Those things they said about me don’t really exist. Perhaps, they exist only in the imagination of the tale bearers.

Superstitions are the shadows of fears unknown.