Quotes About Life

So each round in the game is when you are alive here on Earth. Your spirit is here playing the game. Then when you die that is the end of that particular round. If you decide you want to play another round, then you are born again. Or if you want to drop out for a round or two, then you do. And time passes, and later on if you decide you want to play another round of the game you are born again.

Don't cry for me, just love yourself more today than you did yesterday. It's true when they say tomorrow isn't promised and live everyday like it's your last.

Do not carve on stone or wood, He was honest or He was good. Write in smoke on a passing breeze Seven words… and the words are these, Telling all that a volume could, He lived, he laughed and… he understood.

Doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?' What good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? It's an anxious quivering thing

Isn't death the boundary we need? Doesn't it give a precious texture to life, a sense of definition? You have to ask yourself whether anything you do in this life would have beauty and meaning without the knowledge you carry of a final line, a border or limit.

Why is it so hard to be serious, so easy to be too serious?

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.

When he died he would not end. The world would end.

I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next. But I will spend the rest of my life in this living space writing these notes, this journal, recording my acts and reflections, finding some honor, some worth at the bottom of things. I want ten thousand pages that will stop the world.

I feel sad for people and the queer part we play in our own disasters.

Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it.

Everything that goes on in your whole life is a result of molecules rushing around somewhere in your brain.

The true life is not reducible to words spoken or written, not by anyone, ever.

The term itself—my life—is a desperate overstatement.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?

The truth of the world is exhausting.

Ask yourself this question. Do we have to be humans forever? Consciousness is exhausted. Back now to inorganic matter. This is what we want. We want to be stones in a field.

Sounds like a boring life. I hope it lasts forever, she said.

That's the world out there, little green apples and infectious disease.

I think it's a mistake to lose one's sense of death, even one's fear of death. Isn't death the boundary we need? Doesn't it give a precious texture to life, a sense of definition? You have to ask yourself whether anything you do in this life would have beauty and meaning without the knowledge you carry of a final line, a border or limit.

Think of the great poetry, the music and dance and ritual that spring forth from our aspiring to a life beyond death. Maybe these things are justification enough for our hopes and dreams, although I wouldn't say that to a dying man.

We lead more interesting lives than we think. We are characters in plots, without the compression and numinous sheen. Our lives, examined carefully in all their affinities and links, abound with suggestive meaning, with themes and involute turnings we have not allowed ourselves to see completely.

Would you ask a man who bags groceries if he fears death not because it is death but because there are still some interesting groceries he would like to bag?

The question of dying becomes a wise reminder. It cures us of our innocence of the future.