Quotes About Existence

How can you kill a man who'd already been dead for years?

Yeah, some days you die.

It's supposed to go bing-bing or bong-bong or ding-ding when tires go over it. The one at Dave's stopped working several years ago, and he won't have it fixed because he feels as I do - that none of us need to be reminded we exist.

Life and death lived inside each other. That's what occured to me. Death was inside all of us, waiting for warmer nights, a compromised system, a beetle, as in the now dying black timber on the mountains.

To multiply the years and divide by the desire to live is a kind of false accounting.

Meager as it is. Nothing to lose as I have. Nothing is something somehow.

The difference maybe between the living and the dead: the living often want to be numb, the dead never do ...

I breathed and thanked something that was not exactly God, something that was still here. I could almost imagine that it was still before when we were young and many things still lived.

I think he tried to live every day just so he wouldn't die.

Ich schließe meine Augen. Was da drinnen los ist. Was da zappelt, was da wie ein blinder Fisch durch den Schmerz schwimmt, für immer und ewig. Was da lebt, was bleibt. Was sich erneuert, die Liebe und den Schmerz lebendig hält. Die Liebe ist das Flussbett, das sich mit Schmerz füllt. Es füllt sich jeden Tag aufs Neue mit Tränen.

The sadness of our world, it underlies everything like a water.

The difference maybe between the living and the dead: the living often want to be numb the dead never do, if they never want anything.

Life and death lived inside each other. That's what occurred to me. Death was inside all of us, waiting for warmer nights, a compromised system, a beetle, as in the now dying black timber on the mountains. And life was inside death, virulent and insistent as a strain of flu. How it should be. It

It was not as if they lived, exactly, but maybe they were not lost forever to the great dark. That they endured in the weather and the seasons.

Life and death lived inside each other. That's what occurred to me. Death was inside all of us, waiting for warmer nights, a compromised system, a beetle, as in the now dying black timber on the mountains. And life was inside death, virulent and insistent as a strain of flu. How it should be.

What is evil? What do you think it is? She didn't think for more than a second. She tossed her loose gray hair off the side of her face and said, "Impediment to Being.

It's not that Darwinism isn't describing something real. It's just not life. It's death… and Hell.

God is not an "object" of scientific observation in this world. Even if you understood every individual part of a Ford motor car, took it apart and analyzed each piece, you still wouldn't find Henry Ford. And the car would no longer run. Yet a whole [running] Ford motor car is a beautiful testimony to a person named Henry Ford. God may not be a thing in His world, yet the whole thing can bear testimony to it's maker.

No matter what data is used, we live in a universe where six days from one standpoint is several billion years from another standpoint. And indeed, all of time is an instant from the standpoint of light, and "God is light.

Maybe it's not just a metaphor, and maybe mystery...paradox...wonder...aren't LESS real than this world, but MORE real than this world.

Mystery is not an argument for the existence of God; mystery is an experience of the existence of God.

Living doesn't do you any good,' he replied. 'It kills us all.

As the ancient Gnostics patiently explained almost two thousand years ago, there is no greater trap than to believe one has arrived at "the completion of all completions"—when in reality one hasn't even arrived yet at the very first mystery of existence behind which all the other mysteries after mysteries lie. Then even liberation traps us in its net, thanks to the elegance and grace and speed with which we are caught by what we're sure has set us free.

The precision of existence can never be known by the human mind. That's why the goal of every woman and man is to become human, but the purpose of being human is to leave everything human behind. To discover this precision, one has to stop being a human and start being the mystery of life itself.