Quotes About Existence

Un mondo è un pullulare continuo e irrequieto di cose, un venire alla luce e uno sparire continuo di effimere entità

Çok h?zl? hareket eden dalgac?klard?r. Kuantum mekani?inin garip kurallar?na göre yok olup yeniden ortaya ç?karlar, var olan ?eyler hiçbir zaman kararl? bir durumda olmaz; bir etkile?imden di?erine gerçekle?en bir s?çramadan ba?ka bir ?ey de?ildirler.

Se il mondo è un un pullulare di effimeri quanti di spazio e di materia, un immenso gioco a incastri di spazio e particelle elementari, noi cosa siamo? [...] Nel grande quadro della scienza contemporanea ci sono molte cose che non capiamo, e una di quelle che capiamo meno siamo noi stessi

Nel mare immenso di galassie e di stelle, siamo un infinitesimo angolo sperduto; fra gli arabeschi infiniti di forme che compongono il reale, noi non siamo che un ghirigoro fra tanti

Anche le parole che ora diciamo il tempo nella sua rapina ha già portato via e nulla torna (I, 11)

the world is made entirely from quantum fields

Even the words that we are speaking now thieving time has stolen away, and nothing can return. (I, 11)

Why do we remember the past and not the future? Do we exist in time, or does time exist in us? What does it really mean to say that time "passes"? What ties time to our nature as persons, to our subjectivity? What am I listening to when I listen to the passing of time?

It is the presence of abundant traces of the past that produces the familiar sensation that the past is determined.

If the world is a swarm of ephemeral quanta of space and matter, a great jigsaw puzzle of space and elementary particles, then what are we? Do we also consist only of quanta and particles? If so, then from where do we get that sense of individual existence and unique selfhood to which we can all testify? And what then are our values, our dreams, our emotions, our individual knowledge? What are we, in this boundless and glowing world?

What happens between one interaction and the next is not mentioned in the theory. It does not exist.

A handful of types of elementary particles, which vibrate and fluctuate constantly between existence and nonexistence and swarm in space, even when it seems that there is nothing there, combine together to infinity like the letters of a cosmic alphabet to tell the immense history of galaxies; of the innumerable stars; of sunlight; of mountains, woods, and fields of grain; of the smiling faces of the young at parties; and of the night sky studded with stars.

There is no ultimate or mysterious essence to understand that is the true essence of our being.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN NOTHING HAPPENS?

due to the limitations of our consciousness we perceive only a blurred vision of the world and live in time.

Or does it mean, as it seems to me, that we must accept the idea that reality is only interaction?

The present is like the flatness of Earth: an illusion. We

That which makes us specifically human does not signify our separation from nature; it is part of that self-same nature. It's a form that nature has taken here on our planet, in the infinite play of its combinations, through the reciprocal influencing and exchanging of correlations and information among its parts.

Life on Earth gives only a small taste of what can happen in the universe. Our very soul itself is only one such small example.

Democritus himself, who had placed empty space at the basis of his world where atoms course, certainly wasn't crystal clear on the issue: he wrote that empty space is something "between being and non-being":

I am this long ongoing novel. My life consists of it. It is memory that solders together the processes scattered across time of which we are made. In this sense, we exist in time. It is for this reason that I am the same person today as I was yesterday. To understand ourselves means to reflect on time. But to understand time, we need to reflect on ourselves.

For Plato, forms exist by themselves, in an ethereal ideal world of forms, a world of "ideas." The idea of a horse exists prior to and independently of any actual horse. For Plato, a real horse is nothing but a pale reflection of the idea of a horse. The atoms that make up the horse count for little: what counts is the "horseness," the abstract form.

The difference between past and future, between cause and effect, between memory and hope, between regret and intention . . . in the elementary laws that describe the mechanisms of the world, there is no such difference.

Time is a strange thing. When we don't need it, it is nothing. Then suddenly, there is nothing else. It is everywhere around us. Also, within us. It seeps into our faces. It seeps into the mirror, runs through my temples. Between you and I it runs silently like an hourglass.