Quotes About Existence

Every atom of me, and every atom of you.

We live our lives between magic and panic.

There are no reasons. She is obliged to be as she is. We all are. Reasons are in books.

Dreams? If only they had been! But I don't need dreams, Doctor, that's why I hardly have them—because I have this life instead. With me it all happens in broad daylight!

He was no more, freed from being, entering into nowhere without even knowing it. Just as he'd feared from the start.

Is that what eternity is for, to muck over a lifetime's minutiae? Who could have imagined that one would have forever to remember each moment of life down to its tiniest component?

The end is so immense, it is its own poetry. It requires little rhetoric. Just state it plainly.

And he couldn't do it. He could not fucking die. How could he leave? How could he go? Everything he hated was here.

To those not yet old, being old means you've been. But being old also means that despite, in addition to, and in excess of your beenness, you still are. Your beenness is very much alive. You still are, and one is as haunted by the still-being and its fullness as by the having-already-been, by the pastness. Think of old age this way: it's just an everyday fact that one's life is at stake.

Nothing lasts, and yet nothing passes, either. And nothing passes just because nothing lasts.

He had learned the worst lesson that life can teach-that it makes no sense. And when that happens the happiness is never spontaneous again.

To be alive, to him, is to be made of memory—to him if a man's not made of memory, he's made of nothing.

One's story isn't a skin to be shed— it's inescapable, one's body and blood. You go on pumping it out till you die, the story veined with the themes of your life, the ever-recurring story that's at once your invention and the invention of you.

The profusion of the stars told him unambiguously that he was doomed to die

Life is just a short period of time in which we are alive.

For a pure sense of being tumultuously alive, you can't beat the nasty side of existence.

He couldn't do it. He could not fucking die. How could he leave? How could he go? Everything he hated was here.

Nothing could appear to be more human than refusing to believe extinction possible so long as you were encircled by luscious eggplants and ripe tomatoes[..]

It did not matter that the idea made no sense. Sabbath's sixty-four years of life had long ago released him from the falsity of sense.

Lo malo de la vida es que no sabes realmente si es un proceso descendente, no sabes en absoluto de qué se trata.

Anyone with brains understands that he is destined to lead a stupid life because there is no other kind.

Clothes are a masquerade anyway. When you go outside and see everyone in clothes, then you know for sure that nobody has a clue to why he was born and that, aware of it or not, people are perpetually performing in a dream.

And he couldn't do it. He could not fucking die. How could he leave? How could he go? Everything he hated was here.

He was trying hard to continue to exist as himself despite the unlikeliness of everything.