Quotes About Existence

God as Satan? I've rarely heard a more radical formulation of the problem of theodicy (the attempt to reconcile the existence of a supposedly loving and just God with the persistence of evil).

A minute, fully lived, can feel like all the time in the world.

There once was a man who said, "GodMust think it exceedingly oddIf he finds that this treeContinues to beWhen there's no one about in the Quad."

Philosophers used to speculate about what they called the meaning of life. (That is now the job of mystics and comedians.)

The earth keeps some vibration going there in your heart, and that is you...

If we are all a part of god," she says, "then God must indeed be horrible.

Religion is characterized as belief in the existence of spiritual beings or forces which are in some measure responsible for the cosmos, and in the need of human beings to form relationships with them in which they are accorded some respect. When a group of people operates it in the same way, it becomes 'a' religion

We are the result of the universe attempting to understand itself

Welfare's purpose should be to eliminate, as far as possible, the need for its own existence.

We are spiritual beings walking around in these crazy skin suits. Our insides are much more important than our outsides.

The sorry existence to which this mental tendency was condemned in recent decades by the powerful development of social democracy in Germany may, to a certain extent, be explained by the exclusive domination and long duration of the parliamentary period. A

Todos necesitamos la belleza para que la vida nos sea soportable. Lo expresó muy bien Fernando Pessoa: «La literatura, como el arte en general, es la demostración de que la vida no basta.» No basta, no. Por eso estoy redactando este libro. Por eso lo estás leyendo.

It was just a matter of survival?like getting off the road?so we could exist form day to day.

Happiness, I do not know where to turn to discover you on earth, in the air or the sky yet I know you exist and are no futile dream.

As the source and force of life, she was timeless and endless.

It'll all come right. Because, of course, I do believe...I believe - I believe in everything...sun, moon, stars, in seasons - trees, flowers - people, music, life...yes, in life.

The trees were having a last bedtime drink of the great waters that flowed along down there. Like him, before they went to sleep. Beneath that layer of water he sensed beings. They moved so slowly that humans were usually not aware of their existence. But he did feel their movements down in those regions. And yet deeper, far deeper, below those beings, there was the fire of creation, which had been buried at the center of the earth by stars.

Where are we bound? Is it any different, in fact, from where we were going in the first place? Perhaps all of creation from the coddling moth to the elephant was just a grandly detailed thought that God was engrossed in elaborating upon, when suddenly God fell asleep. We are an idea, then. Maybe God has decided that we are not an idea worth thinking anymore.

This so gnawed at him on some nights that he lay awake wondering just how many unknown and similarly inconsequential accidents and bits of happenstance were at this moment occurring or failing to occur in order to ensure he took his next breath, and the next. It gave him the sensation that he was tottering on the tip of a flagpole. He was poised on circumstance.

I close my eyes and listen to the roar and clatter of the world as it rushes by. We are rushing too. The wind is whipping past us. We are so brief. A one-day dandelion. A seedpod skittering across the ice. We are a feather falling from the wing of a bird. I don't know why it is given to us to be so mortal and to feel so much. It is a cruel trick, and glorious.

What we're living through is either unreal or too real.

all of us invisible and as if we never were here, from the beginning, here.

The piano had taken a year or more to make of woods, she knew, collected and seasoned by the craftsmen, each type destined for a different piece of the sounding board and trim. Time was in the wood. Time was in the hammers. Time was the existence of the piano. Time was the human who had voiced the piano, who had balanced the keys, shaped, hardened, softened each hammer.

In the darkness, she wound herself into the blanket still more tightly. She was swaddled, confined, protected from herself--as in a very exclusively privately run mental hospital devoted solely to the care of one person: Nola. She fell asleep bothered only by the nagging thought that she would have to start all over in the morning. Existence whined in her head like a mosquito. Then she swatted it. Rode the tide of her comfort down into the earth.