Quotes About Existence

I was asking if unwinding kills you, or if it leaves you alive somehow. C'mon—it's not like we haven't thought about it. (...) What do you think, Connor? asks Hayden. What hap­pens to your soul when you get unwound? Who says I even got one? For the sake of argument, let's say you do. Who says I want an argument?

How ironic, then, and how poetic, that humankind may have created the Creator out of want for one. Man creates God, who then creates man. Is that not the perfect circle of life? But then, if that turns out to be the case, who is created in whose image?

Whether consciousness is implanted in us by something divine, or whether it is created by the efforts of our brains, the end result is the same. We are.

Death makes the whole world kin.

You should never apologize for existing, Lev. Not even to all those people out there who wish you didn't.

The dead have nothing left to them but a silent faith in that unknowable infinity - even if theirs is a belief that nothing waits but an infinity of infinities. Because believing in nothing is still believing in something - and only by reaching eternity will anyone know the truth of it all.

Love, Allie concluded, wasn't blind, it simply saw alternate dimensions.

Heaven and hell - nirvana and Valhalla, reincarnation, hauntings, and so many underworlds, one would think the grave was a corridor with a million doors

Death makes the whole world kin. Rowan wondered if a world without death would then make everyone stranger.

the more she read, the more she came to understand the fears and the dreams of mortals. The trouble they all had living in the moment, in spite of the fact that the moment was all they had.

Sharks have a deadly form of claustrophobia. It's not so much fear of enclosed spaces as it is inability to exist in them. No one knows why. Some say it's the metal in aquariums that throws their equilibrium off. But whatever it is, big sharks don't last long in captivity

think of it this way, he said It took nine months to get you born, so doesn't it figure it would take nine months to get you dead?

It is the nature of life to fear its own end. This is how I know that we are truly alive.

Nature deemed that to be born was an automatic sentence to death, and then brought about that death with vicious consistency. We

The longer we live, the quicker the days seem to pass. How troublesome that is when we live forever. A year seems to pass in a matter of weeks. Decades fly with no milestones to mark them. We become settled in the inconsequential drudgery of our own lives, until suddenly we look at ourselves in the mirror and see a face we barely recognize begging us to turn a corner and be young again.

Lik the tree falling in the forest, says Ira. Huh? You know, the old question - if a tree falls in a forest and no one's there to hear it, does it really make a sound? Howie considers this. Is it a pine forest, or oak? What's the difference? Oak is a much denser wood; it's more likely to be heard by someone on the freeway next to the forest where no one is.

Do we exist because others perceive our existence, or is, indeed, our own affirmation enough?

Exactly," says the parrot. "WHY are you here? Or should I ask 'Why are YOU here?' Or 'Why are you HERE?

But birthdays are random... Defining one's life by the day one was cut from an umbilical cord is completely arbitrary.

If every part of you is alive but inside someone else . . . are you alive or are you dead?

Death doesn't just make all the world kin, it makes all religions one

Today you're in a hospital. Or at least this morning. This hour. This minute. Where you'll be three minutes from now is anyone's guess. You've begun to notice, though, that, bit by bit the sense of being outside yourself has diminished with each passing day. A critical mass is reached, and now your soul collapses in upon itself. You're back inside the vessel of your body. Just one. Just you. Just an individual. Me.

Who he was and who he will be are connected only by the fine, nearly invisible thread of who he is now.

You're not eating, Cam," Roberta says as she comes out to join him across the table. Roberta—his creator, or builder—whatever term one gives to the individual who conceived of you. Perhaps, then, it should be "mother," though he's loath to use the word.