Quotes About Existence

Anyway, what I really think good writing does: It enlivens that part of us that actually believes we are in this world, right now, and that being here somehow matters. It reawakens the reader to the fact and the value of her own existence.

None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear.

Why were we made just so, to find so many things that happen every day pretty?

How are we supposed to be living down here? What were we put here to accomplish? What should we value? What is truth, anyway, and how might we recognize it? How can we feel any peace when some people have everything and others have nothing? How are we supposed to live with joy in a world that seems to want us to love other people but then roughly separates us from them in the end, no matter what?

Death very much on my mind tonight, future reader. Can it be true? That I will die? That Pam, kids will die? Is awful. Why were we put here, so inclined to love, when end of our story = death? That harsh. That cruel Do not like.

None of that ever was, he said. And it never will be.

Who am I? Everybody. As Whitman said: "I am large, I contain multitudes." Individuals within that multitude are always flickering on and off within me, stepping forward, then receding. And these individuals resemble the individuals who flicker on and off within you. This is the idea on which fiction is built.

Every day starts out as a certain day, dear reader, which, when it begins, we call today. Hence, every day, as we wake to a new today, we must assume that today may be the day. For what, though? That is what is unknown, that is what I must find out, and quickly now: for what will each of my coming todays henceforth be for?

to wit, I was sensing the eternal in the ephemeral.

These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth.

None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good—

Sweetie, no one is coming. To see how good we have done/are doing. It is just us. Forever. Until a flood gets us or the air or food stops coming. What a joke, the way we live. The worry, the suspicion, the stress, the meanness. I keep dreaming that these dead are telling me what they would do if they could come back. What nobody has said so far: Rat out more folks and kick harder when asked.

So we have the dilemma put to us, What to do, when his power must continue two years longer and when the existence of our country may be endangered before he can be replaced by a man of sense. How hard, in order to save the country, to sustain a man who is incompetent.

Today, at the stupa, it occurs to me that this low-level ambient fear constitutes a decent working definition of the human: A human being is someone who, having lived awhile, becomes terrified and, having become terrified, deeply craves an end to the fear.

It was always falling down around you, everything has always been falling down around us. Only we were too alive to notice.

It is a hard, humdrum existence, and only stolid cart horses like Marya Vasilyevna can bear it for a long time; lively, alert, impressionable people who talk about their calling and about serving the ideal are soon weary of it and give up the work.

None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now must lose them. I

When will I death? Might I death alone? Probably yes Little scared about that. I must say But am not death yet Not dead yet. Not yet. And not yet. World lays out before me new with each click of step and swish of aspen leaves above for that I say thanks For as long as world is shiny new there is no death and what lovely may I not yet do?

The symmetries of immanence are cruel.

Mentre [il lettore] legge, la sua esistenza si accorcia. La sua lettura è un anello nella catena di continuità nella rappresentazione del testo che sottoscrive la sopravvivenza del testo letto.

De qué otra forma puede explicarse la interminable secuencia de desastres, sufrimiento gratuito, desolación pública y privada que caracteriza a la condición humana?

En nuevas formas, el hombre del siglo XXI sigue luchando con el aterrador vacío de la extinción.

Existimos para la oscuridad». ¿Esto

Las narraciones son ensayos para la muerte.