Quotes About Existence

Time is the Mind of Space.

We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.

No, life ends and no, there is nothing elsewhere, and no question now of ever finding again that white speck lost in whiteness, to see if they still lie still in the stress of that storm, or of a worse storm, or in the black dark for good, or the great whiteness unchanging, and if not what they are doing.

Here's my life, why not, it is one, if you like, if you must, I don't say no, this evening. There has to be one, it seems, once there is speech, no need of a story, a story is not compulsory, just a life, that's the mistake I made, one of the mistakes, to have wanted a story for myself, whereas life alone is enough.

This place, if I could describe this place, no place around me, theres no end to me, I dont know what it is, it isnt flesh, it doesnt end, its like air

What a joy to know where one is, and where one will stay, without being there. Nothing to do but stretch out comfortably on the rack, in the blissful knowledge you are nobody for all eternity. A pity I should have to give tongue at the same time, it prevents it from bleeding in peace, licking the lips.

These things I say, and shall say, if I can, are no longer, or are not yet, or never were, or never will be, or if they were, if they are, if they will be, were not here, are not here, will not be here, but elsewhere.

That passed the time. It would have passed in any case. Yes, but not so rapidly.

Nothing to be done. I'm beginning to come round to that opinion.

I get up, go out, and everything is changed. The blood drains from my head, the noise of things bursting, merging, avoiding one another, assails me on all sides, my eyes search in vain for two things alike, each pinpoint of skin screams a different message, I drown in the spray of phenomena.

I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows. I was a solid in the midst of other solids.

What do you expect, one is what one is, partly at least.

Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was, but that I was, forgot to be.

It sometimes happens and will sometimes happen again that I forget who I am and strut before my eyes, like a stranger.

And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.

God is a witness that cannot be sworn.

That's how it is on this bitch of an earth.

Clov: Do you believe in the life to come?Hamm: Mine was always like that.

Birth was the death of him.

Where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.

No, I regret nothing, all I regret is having been born, dying is such a long tiresome business I always found.

I say me, knowing all the while it's not me.