Quotes About Existence

Henri Michaux és autor de frases lapidàries, algunes molt encertades; una que m'habita des que la vaig llegir fa més de trenta anys és aquesta: «Qui n'aime pas ce monde, n'y bâtit pas de maison»>: aquell a qui no agrada aquest món, no hi construeix una casa.

My depression points to my not knowing how to lose - I have perhaps been unable to find a valid compensation for the loss. It follows that any loss entails the loss of my being - and of Being itself. The depressed person is a radical, sullen atheist.

God has many names, you know. Jehovah, Almighty, Everlasting Father, Alpha and Omega . . . But do you know what He calls Himself? I Am. Ask God who He is, and that is what He'll tell you. I Am. Not I was or I'm going to be. But I am. I am here for you now because that's where you need Me. And if God is here, right here, right now, what is there to fear?

Fiction is the only way to redeem the formlessness of life

Sometimes I feel that life is passing me by, not slowly either, but with ropes of steam and spark-spattered wheels and a hoarse roar of power or terror. It's passing, yet I'm the one who's doing all the moving. I'm not the station, I'm not the stop: I'm the train. I'm the train.

It was the tiredness of time lived, with its days and days. It was the tiredness of gravity- gravity, which wants you down in the center of the earth.

Belief is otiose; reality is sufficiently awesome as it stands.

So in his own way Guy Clinch confronted the central question of his time, a question you saw being asked and answered everywhere you looked, in every headline and haircut: if, at any moment, nothing might matter, then who said that nothing didn't matter already?

Time, the human dimension, which makes us everything we are.

Life does rhyme: it rhymes all the time.

Is it a war we are fighting, a war against health, against life and love? My condition is a torn condition. Every day, the dispensing of existence. I see the face of suffering. Its face is fierce and distant and ancient. There's probably a straightforward explanation for the impossible weariness I feel. A perfectly straightforward explanation. It is a mortal weariness. Maybe I'm tired of being human, if human is what I am. I'm tired of being human.

And meanwhile time goes about its immemorial work of making everyone look and feel like shit. You got that? And meanwhile time goes about its immemorial work of making everyone look, and feel, like shit.

One recalls John Updike's argument: the only evidence for the existence of God is the collective human yearning that it should be so.

Dove saremmo Tod e io senza il gabinetto? Dove saremmo senza tutta la spazzatura?

One recalls John Updike's argument: the only evidence for the existence of God is the collective human yearning that it should be so.

He was in a terrible state - that of consciousness.

Black holes mean oblivion. Mean death. And Hawking has been staring at death all his adult life. Hawking could see.

All rooms are waiting rooms. Your room is a waiting room. You are waiting, I am waiting. Everything is getting nearer to being over.

How do you think the world popped into existence? - I'd say wee we are at least five Albert Einsteins away from answering this question.

And I still surfed on Manhattan static.

Death is an artist, not an intellectual.

In such times one realises to what a sad species of animal one belongs.

The answer being found in the development of the whole of human knowledge (and thus reality) out of Self-consciousness; Self-consciousness being both the entirety of reality and also a distinct and distinguishable part of it.

Man dies constantly until the moment of his demise.