Quotes About Existence

They felt neither joy, nor sadness, nor even boredom, but they did wonder sometimes if they still existed, if they really existed. They drew no special satisfaction from asking this deceptive question, beyond this: on occasions, it seemed to them, in a muddled and murky way, that the life they were leading was appropriate, adequate and, paradoxically, necessary

I seek the eternal and the ephemeral.

Quelque chose se cassait, quelque chose s'est cassé. Tu ne te sens plus - comment dire? - soutenu : quelque chose qui, qui, te semblait-il, te semble-t-il, t'as jusqu'alors réconforté, t'a tenu chaud au coeur, le sentiment de ton existence, de ton importance presque, l'impression d'adhérer, de baigner dans le monde, se met à te faire défaut.

Era vero. In quel momento tutto era vero, perché viveva ogni cosa cosi come veniva, senza chiedersi niente, senza cercare di capire, senza neppure sospettare che un giorno ci sarebbe stato qualcosa da capire.

After all, life was not made up of moments of exaltation, but of quite ordinary, everyday things

From Him it is that we exist, and are intelligent beings, as from the source from which all intellect flows, as the stream from its fountain. Since then human nature is so much inferior and less worthy than the angelical, tell us, O man, with what face, with what temerity thou presumest to scrutinize and trace out those mysteries, to the investigation of which the very angels esteem themselves wholly incompetent?

Complicated, isn't it? This living business

Creation not only exists, it also discharges truth... Wisdom requires a surrender, verging on the mystical, of a person to the glory of existence.

Security is the denial of life

Geologic time includes now.

Early on de Tocqueville correctly observed that this democracy was one in which "men are seldom forced by it to act, but they are constantly restrained from acting. Such a power does not destroy, but it prevents existence; it does not tyrannize, but it compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, 'til each nation is reduced to be nothing better than a flock of timid and industrious animals.…" (my italics).

The great Name of God in His creative unfolding is Adam

A rose is a rose is a rose.

At any moment when you are you, you are you without the memory of yourself because if you remember yourself while you are you, you are not for the purposes of creating you.

The painter does not conceive himself as existing in himself, he conceives himself as a reflection of the objects he has put into his pictures and he lives in the reflections of his pictures, a writer, a serious writer, conceives himself as existing by and in himself, he does not at all live in the reflection of his books, to write he must first of all exist in himself, but for a painter to be able to paint, the painting must first of all be done.

When is there some discharge when. There never is.

There is no use in a smell, in taste, in teeth, in toast, in anything, there is no use at all and the respect is mutual. Why should that which is uneven, that which is resumed, that which is tolerable why should all this resemble a smell, a thing is there, it whistles, it is not narrower, why is there no obligation to stay away and yet courage, courage is everywhere and the best remains to stay.

As each person observes their world, one configuration emerges from the ethereal background in perfect synchronicity with a synthesized integration of memory and experience, all of which exists enfolded in the parent consciousness. We ourselves are the evolution of time. The cosmos exists inside of us, as real as we exist inside the cosmos.

A confluence. Something underestimated that's found its power. And she will remember this day with the birds in the sky, that sometimes you must stop and look up because magic exists whether you see it or not, and it's so much better to get the glimpse. And so she will.

I was not the son of a worker or lacking in material or social resources for a relatively comfortable existence; I could say I miraculously escaped wealth.

Even sleepers are workers and collaborators in what goes on in the Universe.

I like living, breathing better than working... Each second, each breath is a work which is inscribed nowhere, which is neither visual nor cerebral. It's a kind of constant euphoria.

How long can men thrive between walls of brick, walking on asphalt pavements, breathing the fumes of coal and oil, growing, working, dying, with hardly a thought of wind, and sky, and fields of grain, seeing only machine-made beauty, the mineral-like quality of life?

I regard the brain as a computer which will stop working when its components fail. There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.