Quotes About Existence

Reality and love are almost contradictory for me.

I look into your eyes & see the universe not yet born.

Love is a special way of being alive.

you have to love life to have life, and you need to have life to love life

Love is the true condition of human life.

I believe absolutely in love being the central motive force of the universe.

Love is life believing in itself

I hated childhood / I hate adulthood / And I love being alive.

Love is as strong as death, as hard as Hell. Death separates the soul from the body, but love separates all things from the soul.

Be drunk with Love, for Love is all that exists. Where is intimacy found if not in the give and take of Love.

What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.

We humans seem disastrously in love with this thing (whatever it is) that glitters on the earth-- we call it life.

There is a huge amount of shame connected to the feeling of not being loved, because love and family, biological or not, confirms our existence. Everyone needs to be seen, accepted and loved.

God, who needs nothing, loves into existence wholly superfluous creatures in order that he may love and perfect them.

The view out the window was too much—the whoosh through the tunnel, the bright subway ads flashing by, taunting her with offers for travel insurance, human-sized pictures of chocolate bars . . . all the flotsam and jetsam of life. Numbers and houses and futures and food. Why did all this stuff have to fly into her face? Who needed it all? Why go this fast?

If nothing were substituted for everything, it would still be too much and too little.

To see was terrifying, and to stop seeing tore me apart from my forehead to my throat.

The anonymous puts the name in place, leaves it empty, as if the name were there only to let itself be passed through because the name does not name, but is the non-unity and non-presence of the nameless.

I am not and I endure. An inexorable future stretches forth infinitely for this suppressed being. Hope turns in fear against time which drags it forward. All feelings gush out of themselves and come together, destroyed, abolished, in this feeling which molds me, makes me and unmakes me, causes me to feel, hideously, in a total absence of feeling, my reality in the shape of nothingness.

A word may give me its meaning, but first it suppresses it. For me to be able to say, 'This woman' I must somehow take her flesh and blood reality away from her, cause her to be absent, annihilate her. The word gives me the being, but it gives it to me deprived of being. The word is the absence of that being, its nothingness, what is left of it when it has lost being - the very fact that it does not exist.

At the moment everything was being destroyed she had created that which was most difficult: she had not drawn something out of nothing (a meaningless act), but given to nothing, in its form of nothing, the form of something.

Memory is freedom of the past. But what has no present will not accept the present of a memory either. Memory says of the event: it once was and now it will never be again. The irremediable character of what has no present, of what is not even there as having once been there, says: it never happened, never for a first time, and yet it starts over, again, again, infinitely. It is without end, without beginning. It is without a future.

Even death is a power, a capacity. It is not a simple event that will happen to me, an objective and observable fact; here my power to be will cease, here I will no longer be able to be here. But death, insofar as it belongs to me and belongs to me alone, since no one can die my death in my stead or in my place, makes of this non-possibility, this impending future of mine, this relation to myself always open until my end, yet another power. Dying, I can still die, this is our sign as man.

Living is such an absurd occupation.