Quotes About Existence

I used to think...that I had to be careful with how much I lived. As if life was a pocketful of coins. You only got so much and you didn't want to spend it all in one place...But now I know that life is the one thing in the world that never runs out. I might run out of mine, and you might run out of yours, but the world will never run out of life. And we're all very lucky to be part of something like that.

But over these past few weeks, her existence has become tolerable. At least, out on the beaches, her privation and fear are rinsed away by wind and color and light. Most

Open your eyes, concludes the man, and see what you can with them before they close forever

we begin as a microscopic electrical swarm. The lungs the brain the heart. Forty weeks later, six trillion cells get crushed in the vise of our mother's birth canal and we howl. Then the world starts in on us.

Maybe living was no more than getting swept over a riverbed and eventually out to sea, no choices to make, only the vast, formless ocean ahead, the frothing waves, the lightless tomb of its depths.

How few days are left in the lives of anyone. How few hours.

God's truth? How long do these intolerable moments last for God? A trillionth of second? The very life of any creature is a quick-fading spark in fathomless darkness. That's God's truth.

Twenty thousand days and nights in one place, each layered and trapped and folded on top of the last, the creases in her hands, the aches between her vertebrae. Embryo, seed coat, endosperm: What is a seed if not the purest kind of memory, a link to every generation that has gone before it?

They just say words, and what are words but sounds these men shape out of breath, weightless vapors they send into the air of the kitchen to dissipate and die.

Even if you don't believe in it, I do. Otherwise what's it all been for?

On Earth, when I was a boy, most everybody got sick. Rashes, funny little fevers. All the unmodified people got sick every now and then. It's part of being human.

Werner wonders in the dead of night, isn't life a kind of corruption? A child is born, and the world sets in upon it. Taking things from it, stuffing things into it. Each bite of food, each particle of light entering the eye—the body can never be pure.

All the events of his life were compressing to singularity: one night, one hour.

But curses are not real. Earth is all magma and continental crust and ocean. Gravity and time. Isn't it?

To a certain extent, time was malleable, what he did did matter. Grace was proof of that. Naaliyah was alive.

had felt time settle over itself, imbricate and fix into place the vertigo of future aligning with the present.

These were the beginnings of a new existence; Winkler could feel it gestating.

Don't you miss the world?" He is quiet; so is she. Both ride spirals of memory.

Three a lucky number, Chryse always said: Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Birth, life, death. Past, present, future.

Sie denkt: Sie sagen einfach nur Worte und was sind Worte anderes als Geräusche, die diese Männer aus Atem formen, gewichtslose Dämpfe, die sie in die Küchenluft schicken, wo sie sich auflösen und sterben.

What mazes there are in this world. The branches of trees, the filigree of roots, the matrix of crystals, the streets her father re-created in his models. Mazes in the nodules on murex shells and in the textures of sycamore bark and inside the hollow bones of eagles. None more complicated than the human brain, Etienne would say, what may be the most complex object in existence; one wet kilogram within which spin universes.

Beneath your world of skies and faces and buildings exists a rawer and older world, a place where surface planes disintegrate and sounds ribbon in shoals through the air.

Four or five or six or a million heartbeats roll by.

We all come into existence as a single cell, smaller than a speck of dust. Much smaller. Divide. Multiply. Add and subtract. Matter changes hands, atoms flow in and out, molecules pivot, proteins stitch together, mitochondria send out their oxidative dictates; we begin as a microscopic electrical swarm. The lungs the brain the heart. Forty weeks later, six trillion cells get crushed in the vise of our mother's birth canal and we howl. Then the world starts in on us.