All suffering is a consequence of a constant quest. A quest to follow a mirage, the mirage that is the creation of our mind, the illusion of happiness, the illusion of being loved. That is what it is. Love itself is an illusion. We misuse the word so much we forget what it means. It means nothing, because it simply does not exist. It is the destiny of the mind to seek. When it does not discover what it seeks, it gives birth to hopelessness. And given our undying spirit, from that hopelessness rises hope itself. This hope takes us to the quest all over again, churning us in an endless cycle of suffering. This cycle is called life. Suffer you will, one way or the other...

— Nilesh Rathod

A magician must always value his magic effects more than himself, because after few years audience may not remember his name, but they will remember his magic effect.

— Amit Kalantri

A magician reveals himself not only by the magic he presents but also by the respect and entertainment he gives to his audience.

— Amit Kalantri

A magician with decreasing practice sessions will give defective performances.

— Amit Kalantri

Ambitions and dreams put you at a drinking table with unexpected companions. Cups were filled and refilled, making you drunk with the illusion of changing the world.

— Guy Gavriel Kay

America is a nation of illusions; illusions in the media, schools and government — an iron curtain of propaganda.

— Bryant McGill

Am I an illusion?

— Debasish Mridha

A Miracle is nothing more, than the removal of an Illusion".

— Vivian Amis

Ample figure, dazzling splendor to rest under the bed of soil; blooming dreams and withering numb; pangs of hunger, hitches of joy; dreadful pain, loudest laughter, piteous silence that echoes deep – were they all mere delusion? Yet, I wonder if they were real at least until I close these eyes! O dear! Did your own self deceive you?

— Preeth Nambiar

And it all came to pass, all that she had hoped, but it did not fill her with rapture nor carry her away with the power or the fervor she had expected. She had imagined it all different, and had imagined herself different, too. In dreams and poems everything had been, as it were, beyond the sea; the haze of distance had mysteriously veiled all the restless mass of details and had thrown out the large lines in bold relief, while the silence of distance had lent its spirit of enchantment. It had been easy then to feel the beauty; but now that she was in the midst of it all, when every little feature stood out and spoke boldly with the manifold voices of reality, and beauty was shattered as light in a prism, she could not gather the rays together again, could not put the picture back beyond the sea. Despondently she was obliged to admit to herself that she felt poor, surrounded by riches that she could not make her own.

— Jens Peter Jacobsen