Quotes About Existence

Kärleken var död. Döden var död. En hel massa saker var döda. Vissa, däremot, var det inte, eller i alla fall inte än.

Regrets when you're dead? A past when you're dead? Is there never any escaping the junkshop of the self?

He shakes his head. He was a man on a railway platform. There was no story. Except, there is. There always fucking is.

There was once, and there was only once; once was all there was. She

And he looked at the oil out of coffee beans, and at frogspawn, and, and anyway now we know what microbes are and what cells are and that the naked human eye can only see a fraction of what is actually there. And that this - (the spill of water on the table) – is full of life we can't see, and just because we can't see it doesn't mean it isn't. It really really is.

The longer Sacha lives the more insane she realizes the species she belongs to is.

Invisible links like these were running between all of the people in the room that day, like they always are, like thin strands of light you couldn't see but you knew were there regardless.

there's nothing left of them, the pantomime innocents or the man with the gun, but bones in grass, bones in flowers, the leafy branches of the ash tree above them. Which s what, in the end, is left of us all, whether we carry a gun while we're here or don't. So. While we're here. I mean, while we're still here.

A whole time can reduce down to a single taste, a moment. A whole person down to the skelf of a self

the little death. What would or could be left of a human being after such an experience?

Death alone gives meaning to life, and you will never fully live until you know you must die. And make your peace with that knowledge.

Anguish is the universal language

While you're alive there's no time for minor amazements.

Where there had been only fearful emptiness or equally frightening grandiose fan­tasies, an unexpected wealth of vitality is now discovered. This is not a homecoming, since this home has never before existed. It is the creation of home.

Abolish these categories of pain (or is it love) Let it all be one pain Pain swallows itself, dies like a star.

And maybe you can't know me now. Maybe I'm just blood. Whatever that's for.

What did you do in your songs? I don't know, I'll never know, you say. Someone else will write them about me, won't they? I looked into a void of love. And I fell down. There was nothing else there. No where, where I was no one. But I have to sing this song. I'm still here.

There isn't any way to be. I will meet you where you've gone. The cards are blank; the cards are empty there. If I can just have one last cut. Do you have a plan for the new? The cards be blank. The symbols be over. I will tell my fortune with the blank cards of blank. What do you see?

Emotion isn't really what I felt . . . Living, one is so detached.

You used to be alive, now you're almost mythic.

I'm alive and dead now, at the same time, speaking in your poems.

We know ourselves in the extinguishable light, but we know ourselves in another universe

I have just transcended my epoch; I am alive outside written memory.

why can't I just live? Why can't I just live?