Quotes About Meaning

Qué es la felicidad? Orgullo satisfecho.

Friendships, along with love, make life worth living." —Coach K

God is the STRUCTURE of Life, not the Narrative.

The value of work goes beyond the paycheck

Why am I alive when so many others are dead?

I want a lifetime of holy moments. Every day I want to be in dangerous proximity to Jesus. I long for a life that explodes with meaning and is filled with adventure, wonder, risk, and danger. I long for a faith that is gloriously treacherous. I want to be with Jesus, not knowing whether to cry or laugh.

But this is what disturbs me: if there is no God, then, the question is, who is in control of man's life and the whole order of things on earth?

Do I express my thoughts lucidly? I think I do. What is my life? An absurdity.

There's no need for you to intercede for him, Margarita, because the one with whom he so sought to talk has already interceded for him.

Why, when all's said and done, do I have to think up a pretext for my every action? I mean, it really is torment, not a life!

It is interesting to note that Margarita's soul was in perfect shape.

Vai tu neb?tu tik labs un nepadom?tu par t?du jaut?jumu: ja nepast?v?tu ?aunums, k?da noz?me b?tu labajam, un k? izskat?tos zeme, ja no t?s vaiga izgaistu visas ?nas?

And then we had one of those conversations which make no sense on paper, which you can't repeat and can't even remember. The sounds mean more than the words, like in an Italian opera.

Et si tous les hommes réfléchissaient davantage, ils se convaincraient que la vie ne vaut pas qu'on se soucie tant d'elle.

Fortunately women have the miraculous ability to change the meaning of their actions after the event.

I have no mission. No one has.

She was experiencing the same odd happiness and odd sadness as then. The sadness meant: We are at the last station. The happiness meant: We are together. The sadness was form, the happiness content. Happiness filled the space of sadness.

The purpose of the poetry is not to dazzle us with an astonishing thought, but to make one moment of existence unforgettable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia.

Culture is perishing in overproduction, in an avalanche of words, in the madness of quantity.

It takes so little, so infinitely little, for someone to find himself on the other side of the border, where everything - love, convictions, faith, history - no longer has meaning. The whole mystery of human life resides on the fact that it is spent in the immediate proximity of, and even in direct contact with, that border, that it is separated from it not by kilometers but by barely a millimeter.

Love is a continual interrogation. I don't know of a better definition of love.

Man can only be certain about the present moment. But is that quite true either? Can he really know the present? Is he in a position to make any judgment about it? Certainly not. For how can a person with no knowledge of the future understand the meaning of the present? If we do not know what future the present is leading us toward, how can we say whether this present is good or bad, whether it deserves our concurrence, or our suspicion, or our hatred?

Before we are forgotten, we will be turned into kitsch. Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion.

Do you realize that people don't know how to read Kafka simply because they want to decipher him? Instead of letting themselves be carried away by his unequaled imagination, they look for allegories — and come up with nothing but clichés: life is absurd (or it is not absurd), God is beyond reach (or within reach), etc. You can understand nothing about art, particularly modern art, if you do not understand that imagination is a value in itself.