Reality (n.) is simply what works in a human soul — not what certain people assume works there.
Reality (n.) is neither the thing nor the idea but their meeting in the psyche: what is real if not real in ourselves — esse in anima?
Reality (n.) is whatever works — and the fantasies of the unconscious work, as any clever philosopher felled by an idiotic agoraphobia can testify.
Reality (n.) is psychic semblance, outer and inner alike, painted on an inscrutable dark backdrop; critical intelligence finds nothing left of absolute reality.
Reality (n.) as we call it is at its core of a mysterious irrationality — the price natural science pays for admitting that causal and final views can both be right.
Reality (n.) holds everything I can know, since whatever acts on me is real — there is no “super-reality,” only a notion of reality shrunk to what the senses report.
Reality (n.) is popularly tied to materiality — yet why should our hypothetical “matter,” which looks different every thirty years, alone be real and spirit not?
Reality (n.) has nothing commonplace to offer — registry offices, pay envelopes, monthly rent — that could outweigh the mystic awe of the hieros gamos.
Reality (n.) consists of nothing but exceptions to the rule: absolute reality has predominantly the character of irregularity.
Reality (n.) may be India's, and the white man's a madhouse of abstractions: life there has not yet withdrawn into the capsule of the head — the whole body still lives.
Reality (n.) is only what acts on me; whatever has no effect on me might as well not exist.