Quotes About Existence

Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.

Somos de la misma sustancia que los sueños, y nuestra breve vida culmina en un dormir.

Nothing that is so, is so.

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, and thou no breath at all?

Well, we were born to die.

Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare, forked animal as thou art.

But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of?

What a piece of work is man!

There is more things in heaven and earth...than are dreamt of by your philosophy.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

To die is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed.

Existen más cosas entre el cielo y la tierra que las que sueñas en tu filosofía.

Life is better life past fearing death, Than that which lives to fear.

A dream itself is but a shadow.

We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are no more.

El infierno está vacío, y todos los diablos están aquí.

A world in which the choices we make do not finally matter, because our wills are already fixed beneath the weight of a crushing determinism, is not a human world.

Does not our lives consist of the four elements? Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking.

This might be the be-all and end-all here, but here, upon this bank and shoal of time, we'd jump the life to come

Hay más cosas en el cielo y en la Tierra, Horacio, de las que contempla tu filosofía.

The sands are number'd that make up my life.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breath What thou hast said to me.