Robert Musil Quotes

And what would you do, ... if you could rule the world for a day? I suppose I would have no choice but to abolish reality.

There is nothing in this world as invisible as a monument

Layer by layer art strips life bare.

One does what one is; one becomes what one does.

If there is a sense of reality, there must also be a sense of possibility.

Progress would be wonderful - if only it would stop.

Stupidity is active in every direction, and can dress up in all the clothes of truth. Truth, on the other hand, has for every occasion only one dress and one path, and is always at a disadvantage.

The thought is not something that observes an inner event, but, rather it is this inner event itself. We do not reflect on something, but, rather, something thinks itself in us.

One must conform to the baseness of an age or become neurotic.

Life forms a surface that acts as if it could not be otherwise, but under its skin things are pounding and pulsing.

True' and 'false' are the evasions of people who never want to arrive at a decision. Truth is something without end.

... there is a particular propensity in the world for people, wherever they appear in great numbers, to permit themselves collectively everything that would be forbidden them individually.

The difference between a healthy person and one who is mentally ill is the fact that the healthy one has all the mentall illnesses, and the mentally ill person has only one.

The thought came to me that all one loves in art becomes beautiful. Beauty is nothing but the expression of the fact that something is being loved. Only thus could she be defined.

I also believe that few people remain completely untouched by the thought that instead of the life they lead there might also be another, where all actions proceed from a very personal state of excitement. Where actions have meanings, not just causes. And where a person, to use a trivial word, is happy, and not just nervously tormenting himself.

It's not the genius who is 100 years ahead of his time but average man who is 100 years behind it.

Life is to blame for everything.

Mathematics is the bold luxury of pure reason, one of the few that remain today.

A politician who climbs high over the bodies of the slain is described as vile or great according to the degree of his success.

Ideology is: intellectual ordering of the feelings; an objective connection among them that makes the subjective connection easier.

Philosophers are people who do violence, but have no army at their disposal, and so subjugate the world by locking it into a system.

It is reality that awakens possibilities, and nothing would be more perverse than to deny it.

The truth is not a crystal that can be slipped into one's pocket, but an endless current into which one falls headlong.

That the will of the people can be established by voting for democrats is, of course, a delusion. Yet when considering a non-threatening system for deciding between diverse interests, then voting, of course, can be regarded as a humane and civilized process.

But how do I get to having to write a book?... It was a mother who bore me, not an inkwell!

and while faith based on theological reasoning is today universally engaged in a bitter struggle with doubt and resistance from the prevailing brand of rationalism, it does seem that the naked fundamental experience itself, that primal seizure of mystic insight, stripped of religious concepts, perhaps no longer to be regarded as a religious experience at all, has undergone an immense expansion and now forms the soul of that complex irrationalism that haunts our era like a night bird lost in the dawn.

Only in the most unusual cases is it useful to determine whether a book is good or bad; for it is just as rare for it to be one or the other. It is usually both.

Clothes, when abstracted from the flow of present time and their transmogrifying function on the human body, and seen as forms in themselves, are strange tubes and excrescences worthy of being classed with such facial decorations as the ring through the nose or the lip-stretching disk. But how enchanting they become when seen togetherwith the qualities they bestow on their wearer! What happens then is no less than the infusion, into some tangled lines on a piece of paper, of the meaning of a great word.

We have gained reality and lost dream. No more lounging under a tree and peering at the sky between one's big and second toes; there's work to be done. To be efficient, one cannot be hungry and dreamy but must eat steak and keep moving.

A particularly fine head on a man usually means that he is stupid; particularly deep philosophers are usually shallow thinkers; in literature, talents not much above the average are usually regarded by their contemporaries as geniuses.

[...] a number of flawed individuals can often add up to a brilliant social unit.

Anything that endures over time sacrifices its ability to make an impression.

Time, which runs through the world like an endless tinsel thread, seemed to pass through the centre of this room and through the centre of these people and suddenly to pause and petrify, stiff, still and glittering... and the objects in the room drew a little closer together.

Writing [for the novelist] is not an activity, but a condition. That is why one simply can't resume the work when one has a job and a free half-day. Reading is the conveyance of this condition.

Each person is a graveyard of his thoughts. They are most beautiful for us in the moment of their birth; later we can often sense a deep pain that they leave us indifferent where earlier they enchanted us.

We do not have too much intellect and too little soul, but too little intellect in matters of the soul.

Mathematics is the source of a wicked intellect that, while making man the lord of the earth, also makes him the slave of the machine.

He who is allowed to do as he likes will soon run his head into a brick wall out of sheer frustration.

I am not only convinced that what I say is false, but also that what one might say against it is false. Despite this, one must begin to talk about it. In such a case the truth lies not in the middle, but rather all around, like a sack, which, with each new opinion one stuffs into it, changes its form, and becomes more and more firm.

... we engage in politics because we don't know anything. This is clearly revealed in the way we go about it. Our parties exist from a fear of theory. The voter fears that one idea can always be contradicted by another. Therefore the parties reciprocally defend themselves against the few old ideas they have inherited. They don't live from what they promise, but from frustrating the promises of others. This is their silent community of interests.

Don't you know that every perfect life would be the end of art?

All still lifes are actually paintings of the world on the sixth day of creation, when God and the world were alone together, without man!

... all professional ideologies are high-minded. Hunters, for instance, would not dream of calling themselves the butchers of the woods.

It will always be the same possibilities, in sum or on the average, that go on repeating themselves until a man comes along who does not value the actuality above idea. It is he who first gives the new possibilities their meaning, their direction, and he awakens them.

And since the possession of qualities presupposes that one takes a certain pleasure in their reality, all this gives us a glimpse of how it may all of a sudden happen to someone who cannot summon up any sense of reality — even in relation to himself — that one day he appears to himself as a man without qualities.

With its claims to profundity, boldness and originality, thinking still limits itself provisionally to the exclusively rational and scientific. ... As soon as it lays hold of the feelings, it becomes spirit.

Every word wants to be taken literally, else it decays into a lie. But one mustn't take any word literally, else the world becomes a madhouse.

In their field they [mathematicians] do what we ought to be doing in ours. Therein lies the significant lesson ... of their existence. They are an analogy for the intellectual of the future.

Have we not huddled in bunkers, while some premonition of tomorrow hung in the air and a comrade started singing? Oh, it felt so melancholy! And it was kitsch.

the restricting of intellectual and spiritual needs to the mania of progress