Quotes About Existence

I don't complain about the horrors of life. I complain only about the horrors of my life. The only important fact for me is the fact that I exist and that I suffer and cannot entirely dream myself out of feeling that suffering.

Tomorrow doesn't exist. This moment Alone is mine, and I am only who Exists in this instant, which might be the last Of the self I pretend to be. 16 March 1933

But if God is the flowers and trees And hills and sun and moon, Then why should I call him God? I'll call him flowers and trees and hills and sun and moon.

But thank God there's imperfection in the World, Since imperfection is a thing, And the existence of mistaken People is original, And the existence of sick People makes the world interesting. If there were no imperfection, there would be one less thing, And there should be many Things, So that we will have a lot to see and hear For as long as Our eys and ears remain open...

I also have my crochet. It dates from when I began to think. Stitch on stitch forming a whole without a whole … A cloth, and I don't know if it's for a garment or for nothing. A soul, and I don't know if it's for feeling or living. What

A verdade, se ela existe, Ver-se-á que só consiste Na procura da verdade, Porque a vida é só metade.

I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the abyss pulls up. I don't know where it will take me, because I don't know anything. I could see this inn as a prison, for I'm compelled to wait in it; I could see it as a social centre, for it's here that I meet others.

My life is so sad, and yet I do not even consider weeping over it; my hours are so false, and I do not even dream the gesture that might end them.

Perhaps everything in life is the degeneration of something else. Perhaps existence is always an approximation – an advent, or surroundings. Just as Christianity was but the prophetic degeneration of a debased Neo-Platonism, the Romanization of Hellenism through Judaism,* so our age – senile and carcinogenic* – is the multiple deviation of all great goals, concordant or conflicting, whose defeat gave rise to all the negations we use to affirm ourselves.*

Así vivo, en visión pura, el exterior animado de las cosas y los seres, indiferente como un dios de otro mundo, a su contenido-espíritu. Sólo profundizo en la superficie y en lo exterior, y cuando ansío la profundidad la busco en mí y en mi concepto de las cosas.

Todos los movimientos y las intenciones de la vida, desde la vida sencilla de los pulmones hasta la construcción de ciudades y el trazado de fronteras de imperios, los considero como una somnolencia, cosas como sueños o descansos pasadas involuntariamente en el intervalo entre una realidad y otra realidad, entre un día y otro día del Absoluto.

To narrate is to create, whilst to live is merely to be lived.

Eu nu m? plâng de lume.Nu protestez în numele universului.Nu sunt pesimist.Eu suf?r ÅŸi plâng,dar nu ÅŸtiu dac? ceea ce exist? în general e suferin??,nici nu ÅŸtiu dac? e omeneÅŸte s? suferi.Suf?r,îns? nu ÅŸtiu dac? pe bun? dreptate.Eu nu sunt pesimist,sunt trist.

É tão magno o tédio, tão soberano o horror de estar vivo, que não concebo que coisa haja que pudesse servir de lenitivo, de antídoto, de bálsamo ou esquecimento para ele. Dormir horroriza-me como tudo. Morrer horroriza-me como tudo. Ir e parar são a mesma coisa impossível. Esperar e descrer equivalem-se em frio e cinza. Sou uma prateleira de frascos vazios.

Your profile relies on you not being anything and the shape of your unreal body unstrings and scatters the pearls of the very idea that you even have a shape. You have already passed, you have already been, I have already loved you — that is how I feel your presence.

Should you ask me if I'm happy, I shall answer that I'm not.

I was not meant for reality, it was life that sought me out.

Passa tudo isso, e nada de tudo isso me diz nada, tudo é alheio ao meu destino, alheio, até, ao destino próprio — inconsciência, carambas ao despropósito quando o acaso deita pedras, ecos de vozes incógnitas — salada coletiva da vida.

And all religions put together teach no more than the candy shop.

los pobres diablos sin más literatura que su propia alma, sin más libros que los de otros, que mueren asfixiados por el hecho de existir sin haber hecho aquel desconocido examen trascendente que los habilitara para vivir.

But if the Dream Kings were mine, what would I have to dream about? If I possessed the impossible landscapes, what would remain of the impossible?

Death is what we are and what we live. We are born dead, we deadly exist, and we are already dead when we enter Death. Whatever lives, lives because it changes; it changes because it passes; and, because it passes, it dies. Whatever lives is constantly transforming into something else – it continually denies itself, it perpetually evades life. Life is thus an interval, a link, a relation, but a relation between what has passed and what will pass, a dead interval between Death and Death.

Men and objects share a common abstract destiny: to be of equally insignificant value in the algebra of life's mystery.

Tudo se me tornou insuportável, exceto a vida