Quotes About Meaning

I'm trying to tell ya something bout my life,,maybe give me insight between black and white,,and the best thing you'd ever done for me is to help me take my life less seriously--it's only LIFE afterall...

Et træ eksistereri en træskikkelse, og derfor kan også mit liv, eller hele min families liv antage denne skikkelse.

He who has a why to live can bear almost any how. – Friedrich Nietzsche

Her grandfather's books [...] opened before Ada, a world whose colours were so dazzling that reality paled in comparison and faded away. Boris Godunov, Satan, Athalia, King Lear: they all spoke words charged with meaning; every syllable was inexpressively precious

Danger, courage, fear, love: now he knew the real meaning of these words Ã¢â'¬Â¦ Yes, even love Ã¢â'¬Â¦ He felt better now, stronger, and very confident. He would never see the world through anyone else's eyes again. But more than that, anything he might love and believe from now on would come from himself, and no one else. Slowly, he put his hands together, lowered his head and, finally, prayed.

The healthiest response to death is to love, honor, and celebrate life.

Art and psychoanalisis give shape and meaning to life and that's why we adore them. However, life as it is lived has no shape nor meaning, and that's what I am experiencing right now.

So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.

Perhaps there was an intimacy which did not need words.

An experience is richest not talked of.

What the cold light showed me was that my situation was simply unlivable. I wanted, with a desire greater than any desire which I had ever conceived could exist without instantly killing its owner by spontaneous combustion, something which I simply could not have.

Death is not the consummation of oneself but just the end of oneself. Before the self vanishes nothing really is, and that is how it is most of the time. But as soon as the self vanishes everything is, and becomes automatically the object of love. Love holds the world together, and if we could forget ourselves everything in the world would fly into a perfect harmony, and when we see beautiful things that is what they remind us of.

Indeed, now I come to think of it, nearly everything in the world is relevant to my situation.

I saw . . . what I've really know all along, that you are my truth. For me you are the way the truth and the life. Only here can I be totally myself.

But there are times of suffering which remain in our lives like black absolutes and are not blotted out. Fortunate are those for whom these black stars shed some sort of light.

The notion that 'it all somehow must make sense', or 'there is a best decision here', preserves from despair: the difficulty is how to entertain this consoling notion in a way which is not false.

There are things which are appalling to young people because young people think life should be happy and free. But life is never really happy and free in any beautiful sense. Happiness is a weak and paltry thing and perhapsfreedom has no meaning. There are great patterns in which we are involved, and destinies which belong to us and which we love even in the moment when they destroy us.

This talk of love means very little. Love is not a feeling. It can be tested. Love is action, it is silence. It's not the emotional straining and scheming for possession that you used to think it was.

Perhaps in the end the suffering is all, it's all contained in the suffering. The final atoms of it all are simply pain.

How soon we cover up the horror of death and loss, if we can, with almost any sort of explanation, as if we had to justify the very fate which had maimed us.

I was not, except in some very broken-down sense of that ambiguous term, a love child. I was a word child.

I don't like you, I love you. You're a portent for me, a sign. I've always lived by signs.

And he thought, I shall go on blindly and secretly jumbling all these things together and making no sense of them as long as I live. Maybe every human creature carries some such inescapable burden. That is being human. A very weird affair.

Art and psychoanalysis give shape and meaning to life and that is why we adore them, but life as it is lived has no shape and meaning, and that is what I am experiencing just now.