Quotes About Existence

I was thinking between 3 and 4 this morning, of my 55 years. I lay awake so calm, so content, as if I'd stepped off the whirling world into a deep blue quiet space and there open eyed existed, beyond harm; armed against all that can happen.

We have destroyed something by our presence, a world perhaps.

Nothing exists outside of us except a state of mind...

The compensation of growing old...was simply this; that the passions remain as strong as ever, but one has gained - at last! - the power which adds the supreme flavor to existence, - the power of taking hold of experience, of turning it round, slowly, in the light.

Then there was the terror; the overwhelming incapacity, one's parents giving it into one's hands, this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely;

Kendisi nedir ? Herkesin gördüÄŸü ÅŸey midir? Yoksa olduÄŸunuz ÅŸey mi?

But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in mid-air by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in.

Are you aware that you are, perhaps, the most discussed animal in the universe?

Here is something definite, something real. Thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours.

Thats what makes a view so sad, and so beautiful. It'll be there when we're not.

to be engaged to marry some one with whom you are not in love is an inevitable step in a world where the existence of passion is only a traveler's story brought from the heart of deep forests and told so rarely that wise people doubt whether the story can be true.

Yet now leaning here, till the gate prints my arm, I feel the weight that has formed itself in my side. Something has formed…some hard thing.

Asa, intr-o zi de vara valurile se aduna, se inalta, cumpanindu-se, si cad; se aduna si cad; si universul intreg pare sa spuna, sa spuna mereu, "asta e tot" mereu mai apasat, iar inima din trupul care sta intins la soare pe tarm spune si ea. Asta e tot. Nu te mai teme, spune inima. Nu te mai teme,spune inima, incredintandu-si povara vreunei mari care suspina obstesc pentru toate tristetile; si reia, incepe, aduna, lasa sa cada.

It was the present moment. No one need wonder that Orlando started, pressed her hand to her heart, and turned pale. For what more terrifying revelation can there be than that it is the present moment?

She had a sense of being past everything, through everything, out of everything, as she helped the soup. as if there was an eddy--there--and one could be in it, or one could be out of it, and she was out of it.

Life is a dream. 'Tis waking that kills us.

Thank God, Helen, I'm not like you! I sometimes think you don't think or feel or care to do anything but exist! You're like Mr. Hirst. You see that things are bad, and you pride yourself on saying so. It's what you call being honest; as a matter of fact it's being lazy, being dull, being nothing. You don't help; you put an end to things.

Illusions are to the soul what atmosphere is to the earth. Roll up that tender air and the plant dies, the colour fades. The earth we walk on is a parched cinder. It is smarl we tread and fiery cobbles scorch our feet. By the truth we are undone. Life is a dream. 'Tis waking that kills us. He who robs us of our dreams robs us of our life...

She was thinking how all those paths and the lawn, thick and knotted with the lives they had lived there, were gone: were rubbed out; were past; were unreal, and now this was real; the boat and the sail with its patch; Macalister with his earrings; the noise of the waves--all this was real.

unless I am myself, I am nobody.

Still, there's no harm in putting a full stop to one's disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall... Here is something definite, something real. thus, waking from a midnight dream of horror, one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent, worshipping the chest of drawers, worshipping solidity, worshipping reality, worshipping the impersonal world which is proof of some existence other than ours.

I think sometimes [...] I am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn

We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.

Let us not take it for granted that life exists more in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.