Quotes About Existence

People or rather each person by himself, can very well be viewed as a novel serialized in a daily newspaper which is printed by nature.

Whereas we're not even capable of living, not even capable of existing, for we don't exist, we get existed.

Suddenly there's an idea and it demands realization, our entire life, our entire existence consists only of such ideas demanding realization, once this process breaks off, our life breaks off, we're dead. We consist of nothing but ideas that surface inside us and that we want to realize, that we must realize, or else we're dead, so Roithamer. Every idea and and every pursuit of an idea inside us is life, so Roithamer, the lack of ideas is death.

Always wanting the impossible and left with the possible in his minimal existence, the individual always find himself in the lowest depths of dissatisfaction. Nevertheless he always manages to create another life situation for himself, probably because he really loves life, just as it is. We always crave something other than we can have, than we have, other than what is suitable for us, and so we're unhappy.

Man is a wretched creature and death is a certainty - Thomas Bernhard

To exist means nothing other than we despair . . .

I could hear her voice and take delight in the things she used to say, in her laugh, in her responsiveness to everything beautiful. For Joana had the gift of always seeing the beauty which exists beside the terrible, unending ugliness that destroys and annihilates—a gift which very few possess, but which she possessed to a higher degree than anyone I have known in my whole life.

we all live at least three different lives, a real one, an imaginary one, and one we are not even aware of ...

Da sam imao razum, kaže Elmer, da sam neprekidno imao razum, kaže on, odavno bih se ubio, ali nisam se ubio, jer nisam neprekidno imao razum.

Was die Schriftsteller schreiben ist ja nichts gegen die Wirklichkeit jaja sie schreiben ja daß alles fürchterlich ist daß alles verdorben und verkommen ist daß alles katastrophal ist und daß alles ausweglos ist aber alles das sie schreiben ist nichts gegen die Wirklichkeit die Wirklichkeit ist so schlimm, daß sie nicht beschrieben werden kann noch kein Schriftsteller hat die Wirklichkeit so beschrieben wie sie wirklich ist das ist das Fürchterliche

Wir leben doch immer in der falschen Zeit hat er gesagt wir wollen alle nur in der Vergangenheit leben die haben wir uns so schön eingerichtet die Vergangenheit wie wir wollen kein Mensch will die Zukunft

After all, there is nothing but failure. If at least we have the will to fail we make progress, and in everything, in each and everything, we must at least have the will to fail unless we wish to perish at a very early stage, which of course cannot be the intention behind our existence.

La verdad es que, durante nuestra vida, sólo tuvimos siempre miedo.

Everything is what it is, that's all. If we keep attaching meanings and mysteries to everything we perceive, everything we see that is, and to everything that goes on inside us, we are bound to go crazy sooner or later, I thought.

because in the end nothing matters all that much , as he also wrote on another slip, and on his last slip he'd written, it's all the same .

With what strife and pains we come into the world we know not, but 'tis commonly no easy matter to get out of it.

The created world is but a small parenthesis in eternity' something quite different, relating to the planet's life-span, not individual life-span.

Here it is: there's only one story. There, I said it and I can't very well take it back. There is only one story. Ever. One. It's always been going on and it's everywhere around us and every story you've ever read or heard or watched is part of it.

Different: no guilty party exists in the narrative (unless you count the author, who is present everywhere and nowhere).

Since it is in the nature of consciousness to be reflective, we can never fully inhabit any conscious state that we are in, so that our 'restlessness' lies in the very nature of our being.

Meanwhile, the trees were just as green as before; the birds sang and the sun shone as clearly now as ever. The familiar surroundings had not darkened because of her grief, nor sickened because of her pain. She might have seen that what had bowed her head so profoundly -the thought of the world's concern at her situation- was found on an illusion. She was not an existence, an experience, a passion, a structure of sensations, to anybody but herself.

She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year. Her own birthday, and every other day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. She suddenly thought, one afternoon, that there was another date, of greater importance than all those; that of her own death; a day which lay sly and unseen among all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it?

So that, whatever the stars were made for, they were not made to please our eyes. It is just the same in everything; nothing is made for man.

you are absolutely the most ethereal, least sensual woman I ever knew to exist without inhuman sexlessness.