Quotes About Existence

I feel myself. But it's only the eye with a lash in it, the swollen finger, the infected tooth that feels itself, is conscious of its own individual being. The healthy eye or finger or tooth doesn't seem to exist. So it's clear, isn't it? Self-consciousness is just a disease.

Forget that you're a gram and feel yourself a millionth part of a ton.

To feel one's self, to be conscious of one's personality, is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder, or an infected finger, or a bad tooth. A healthy eye, or finger, or tooth is not felt; it is nonexistent, as it were. Is it not clear, then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness? Apparently

Ora o conhecimento de si, o reconhecimento da própria individualidade só o têm o olho onde acaba de cair um cisco, o dedo esfolado, o dente dolorido. Quando sãos, o olho, o dedo, o dente não têm existência alguma. Não prova isto claramente que a consciência de si é de facto uma doença?

Kendimi duyumsuyorum. Ama sadece içine kirpik kaçan göz, ÅŸiÅŸmiÅŸ parmak veya çürük diÅŸ kendini duyumsar, bireysel varl???n?n bilincine var?r. SaÄŸl?kl? göz veya parmak ya da diÅŸ varlarm?? gibi görünmezler. Yani gayet aç?k, deÄŸil mi? Kendi kendinin bilincine varmak hastal?kt?r.

felt myself. To feel one's self, to be conscious of one's personality, is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder, or an infected finger, or a bad tooth. A healthy eye, or finger, or tooth is not felt; it is non-existent as it were. Is it not clear then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?

They say there are flowers that bloom only once in a hundred years. Why not suppose the existence of flowers that bloom only once a thousand years? We may have known nothing about them until now only because today is the "once in a thousand years"?

Kendimi hissediyorum. Ama sadece içine bir ÅŸey kaçan göz, yaral? parmak ya da aÄŸr?yan diÅŸ kendini hisseder ve bireyselliÄŸini kavrar. SaÄŸl?kl? göz, parmak ve diÅŸ adeta yoktur. KiÅŸisel bilincin bir hastal?ktan ibaret olduÄŸu apaç?k ortada deÄŸil mi?

Can it really be that the world- our world- still exists? Or is this just inertia, the generator is off, but the gears are still turning and plodding along- two or three more rotations, then on the fourth, they'll come to a standstill...

the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?

OvÅ¡em, je to jasné: chceme-li stanovit skute?nou hodnotu funkce, musíme ur?it její limitu. A je jasné, že limitou v?erejÅ¡ího hloupého "rozplynutí ve vesmíru" je smrt. Protože smrt je vlastnÄ› mé úplné rozplynutí ve vesmíru. Ozna?íme-li tedy lásku L a smrt S, bude L = f(S), tj. láska a smrt…

Is it not clear then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?

To feel one's self, to be conscious of one's personality, is the lot of an eye inflamed by a cinder, or an infected finger, or a bad tooth. A healthy eye, or finger, or tooth is not felt; it is non-existent as it were. Is it not clear then, that consciousness of oneself is a sickness?

I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?

Now I no longer live in our clear, rational world; I live in the ancient nightmare world, the world of square roots of minus one.

It is an error to divide people into the living and the dead: there are people who are dead-alive, and people who are alive-alive. The dead-alive also write, walk, speak, act. But they make no mistakes; only machines make no mistakes, and they produce only dead things. The alive-alive are constantly in error, in search, in questions, in torment.

The whole world is one immense woman, and we are in her very womb, we are not yet born, we are joyfully ripening.

A person should want to live, if only out of curiosity.

Truth never dies, but lives a wretched life.

SOMETIMES YOU HEAR PEOPLE say so-and-so has lived well, and so-and-so has had a dull life. They are missing a key point when they say that. Any experience is experience, any life a life. A day in a cloister can be as dramatic and fatal as a day on a battlefield.

All the same, the doll, like all dolls, cannot even be called dead, as it was never alive.

What a tragedy that would have been, living an interchangeable life, looking for interchangeable excitements.

Perhaps when I say I was expecting his suicide, it is only memory going back to revise itself. There is no reason an artistic and sensitive boy could not grow into a happy man. Where and how things went amiss with him I do not know, though even as a teenager, I recognized his despondency when at school the production of his play earned him jeers and a special exhibition of his car designs estranged him from his classmates. He was the kind of person who needed others to feel his existence.

If I didn't wake up, I'd still be sleeping.