Quotes About Existentialism

The fact that Anna is somewhere having coffee or a dream is an assault on me. I hate these moments of poverty. What does man eat? ask the phenomenologists. Like the dogs, names, down there, starving.

If Kafka had been a woman, then Gregor Samsa would not have turned into an insect, he would not have had to. Gregor would be Gretel and she would wake up one morning pregnant. She would try to roll over and discover she was stuck on her back. She would wave her little hands uselessly in the air.

The Fury of Sunsets" Something cold is in the air, an aura of ice and phlegm. All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it. The horizon bleeds and sucks its thumb. The little red thumb goes out of sight. And I wonder about this lifetime with myself, this dream I'm living. I could eat the sky like an apple but I'd rather ask the first star: why am I here? why do I live in this house? who's responsible? eh?

Ni soumission ni consentement, seulement l'effarement du reel qui fait tout juste se dire "qu'est-ce qui m'arrive" ou "c'est a moi que ça arrive" sauf qu'il ny'a plus de moi en cette circonstance, ou ce n'est plus le meme deja.

On découvrait le "nouveau roman", Butor, Robbe-Grillet, Sollers, Sarraute, on voulait l'aimer mais on ne trouvait pas en lui assez de secours pour vivre.

Boredom is a fearsome prospect. There's a limit to the number of cars and microwaves you can buy. What do you do then?

I am not particularly religious. But I think we do face the question of where God is, why we are created and where does life go, why we exist. That sort of thing. And it is very hard to talk about it these days, because it cannot be proven. It is hard to discuss it rationally.

I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a meaningless world.

Very few of the people who accentuate the futility of life remarks the futility of themselves.

Not only for that night but for the days and weeks that followed his books were to be but furniture and his friends only people who lived and walked in a nebulous outer world from which he was trying to escape.

He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...

I'm losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.

Give me some more wine, because life is nothing.

Ah, what a morning this is, awakening me to life's stupidity. [98 - Zenith trans.]

We never know self-realization. We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.

All that I've done, thought or been is a series of submissions, either to a false self that I assumed belonged to me because I expressed myself through it to the outside, or to a weight of circumstances that I supposed was the air I breathed. In this moment of seeing, I suddenly find myself isolated, an exile where I'd always thought I was a citizen. At the heart of my thoughts I wasn't I.

I go forward slowly, dead, and my vision is no longer mine, it's nothing: it's only the vision of the human animal who, without wanting, inherited Greek culture, Roman order, Christian morality, and all the other illusions that constitute the civilization in which I feel. Where can the living be?

O único sentido íntimo das cousas É elas não terem sentido íntimo nenhum.  

Life is the hesitation between an exclamation mark and a question mark. After doubt there is a full stop.

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

There are dreamed anguishes that are more real Than the ones life brings us, there are sensations Felt only by imagining Which are more ours than our own life is. There's so often a thing which, not existing, Does exist, exists lingeringly And lingeringly is ours and us…

It was just a moment, and I saw myself. I can no longer even say what I was. And now I'm sleepy, because I think – I don't know why – that the meaning of it all is to sleep.

So great is my tedium, so overwhelming the horror of being alive, that I cannot imagine what could possibly serve as a palliative, an antidote, a balm, a source of oblivion.

El único modo de estar de acuerdo con la vida es estar en desacuerdo con nosotros mismos. Lo absurdo es lo divino. Establecer