Quotes About Existence

In the beginning was the Word. In the end…past honor, past life, past caring… In the end will be the Word.

pero sobre todo se basaban en el descubrimiento del siglo XX de que, en el fondo, todo es información. Datos. Consciencia. Materia. Energía. Todo es información.

Death, she decides early, is simple. One dies and makes the grass and flowers grow. Everything else is a crock of shit.

If there is a god [...] he's a poet. And a failed one at that.

In the end, it is all we are, these limpid tide pools of self-consciousness between crashing waves of pain.

One of my favorite things was from the Tattireeya Upanishads. It goes—'I am this world, and I eat this world. Who knows this, knows.

But who the hell cares if the flowers bloom if no one is around to see them, to smell them?

If love is the answer, what was the question?

I know certain truths about life.

What am I now that I was then? / May memory restore again and again / The smallest color of the smallest day; / Time is the school in which we learn, / Time is the fire in which we burn.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror," Rilke wrote. Nearly

Do you know the three great spiritual questions? he asked...Who am I?...Why am I here?...And how shall I live?

Either all of us are accidents of history or none of us are.

There is no other life than this. You would not have stumbled into the vastly imperfect, beautiful, impossible present.

He's been reading James Gleick, and repeats a passage to Ben by heart. "If only time could be seen whole, then you could see the past remaining intact, instead of vanishing in the rearview mirror.

It wasn't scary. I mean, it was scary being in the dark and cold and everything, but when the lady, Mrs. Wilf, died, it was like everything had no beginning, and no end. Like we were lightyears away and here, all at the same time.

Somewhere, a clock ticks. Sand pours through the hourglass. I am no longer interested in the stories but rather, what is underneath the stories: the soft, pulsating thing that is true.

The text in sum, invites a woeful deconstruction of bombarding realities. So, one thinks ruefully, is the soul deconstructed in the act of writing—a task looked on (and so rightly) as the original artful dodge.

It is as reasonable to represent one kind of imprisonment by another as it is to represent anything that really exists by that which exists not.

Sure we are all made by some secret Power, who formed the earth and sea, the air and sky. 

Two waves in the ocean are talking to each other. The front wave tells the second that it's frightened because it is about to crash into the shore and cease to exist. But the second wave shows no fear. It explains to the first: You are frightened because you think you are a wave; I am not frightened because know I am part of the ocean.

Numbersign questionmark you and Asterisk exclamation point the world.

When do you learn that the world, like any diner worth its salt, is open twenty-four hours a day?

Weekends and weekdays, when you knew I was looking and when you didn't even guess I was alive. Even with shiny stars bothering your head it was beautiful.