Quotes About Existence

She took drugs, therefore I exist. Ain't life odd? But still, please refrain from getting mixed up with substances.

We are connected to the way-back people, here, in so many ways. Maybe a way-back person touched these shells. Maybe the little creatures in them disintegrated into the dirt. Maybe some tiny piece from that creatures is inside us now. We can't know these things.

Why do I long to be devoured and to forget in life rather than in death? What is the difference?

Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson

What is the whole of our existence but the sound of an appalling love?

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haine Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai Sailboat

I will always be made of things, and things will always be made of me. Nothing can get rid of me because I am already included into the pattern.

Clarice Lispector

The next world, of what shall consist its poisons and delights? Love in this world avoided me. And love's issue, beyond all measure. Immersed in the saltless broth of my existence, I tried on moods.

This is eternity, right here, for eternity is nothing other than awareness of time going by.

For what is a man, what are we all, but bits of time caught for a moment in a tangle of blood, bones, skin, and brain?

We are time's containers.

Too Loud a Solitude, by Bohumil Hrabel Train Dreams, by Denis Johnson Sula, by Toni Morrison The Shadow-Line, by Joseph Conrad The All of It, by Jeannette Haien Winter in the Blood, by James Welch Swimmer in the Secret Sea, by William Kotzwinkle The Blue Flower, by Penelope Fitzgerald First Love, by Ivan Turgenev Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys Mrs. Dalloway, by Virginia Woolf Waiting for the Barbarians, by J. M. Coetzee Fire on the Mountain, by Anita Desai

C'est peut-être ça qu'on cherche à travers les vie, rien que cela, le plus grand chagrin possible pour devenir soi-même avant de mourir.

Lie, copulate, and die.

People live from one play to the next. In between, before the curtain goes up, they don't quite know what the plot will be or what part will be right for them, they stand there at a loss, waiting to see what will happen, their instincts folded up like an umbrella, squirming, incoherent, reduced to themselves, that is, to nothing. Cows without a train.

The truth is an endless death agony. The truth is death.

C'est cela l'exil, l'étranger, cette inexorable observation de l'existence telle qu'elle est vraiment pendant ces quelques heures, lucides, exceptionnelles dans la trame du temps humain, où les habitudes du pays précédent vous abandonnent, sans que les autres, les nouvelles, vous aient encore suffisamment abruti.

Our molecules, the dears, want to get lost in the universe as fast as they can! It makes them miserable to be nothing but "us," the jerks of infinity. We'd burst if we had the courage, day after day we come very close to it. The atomic torture we love so is locked up inside us with our pride.

Lo mejor que puedes hacer, verdad, cuando estás en este mundo, es salir de él. Loco o no, con miedo o sin él.

At the bottom of all music you have to hear the tune without notes, made just for us, the tune of Death.

Since we are nothing but packages of tepid, half-rotted viscera, we shall always have trouble with sentiment.

Nothing can be explained. The world only knows how to do one thing, to roll over and kill you

The best thing to do when you're in this world, don't you agree, is to get out of it. Crazy or not, scared or not.