Quotes About Meaning

Here are the dead poets, still musing, still pondering, still questioning the meaning of existence.

Mi az élet értelme? Ez volt az egész - ez az egyszer? kérdés, mely a múló évekkel egyre jobban bekeríti az embert. A nagy kinyilatkoztatás nem jött még el soha. A nagy kinyilatkoztatás talán nem jön el már soha.

En la enfermedad, parece que las palabras poseen una cualidad mística. Captamos lo que está más allá de su significado superficial, deducimos instintivamente (...)

What is the meaning of life? That was all—a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years.

Tudo parece significar tantas coisas (...)

for there was neither pride nor regret in his tone; indeed it kept its level note, as of one who tells a tale so well known that the words have been rubbed smooth of meaning.

to say, Oh, yes, Frisk. I'll call him Frisk. She wanted even to say, Was

It might be possible, Septimus thought, looking at England from the train window as they left Newhaven, it might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

Kokia gyvenimo prasm?? Tai ir viskas - paprastas klausimas, slenkant metams žmog? vis labiau apninkantis. Didysis apreiškimas taip ir neat?jo. Didysis apreiškimas, matyt, apskritai niekada neateina. Esama tik kasdienini? stebukl?li?, nušvitim?, tamsoje netik?tai ?žiebiam? degtuk?, kaip štai dabar.

He was attaching meanings to words of a symbolical kind. A serious symptom, to be noted on the card.

Ha fontolóra vesszük a dolgot, ki tudja, nem ezt gondolta-e talán: vajon valóban mindent ki tudnak mondani a szavak? Mondanak egyáltalán valamit? Nem rombolják-e le a valóságot, mely egyszer?en meghaladja a teljesítÅ'képességüket?

But if there are no stories, what end can there be, or what beginning?

Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.

What happened to the writer is not what matters; what matters is the large sense that the writer is able to make of what happened.

Life is just one small piece of light between two eternal darknesses.

A work of art has no importance whatever to society. It is only important to the individual.

If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

I liked, as I like still, to make words look self-conscious and foolish, to bind them by mock marriage of a pun, to turn them inside out, to come upon them unawares. What is this jest in majesty? This ass in passion? How do god and devil combine to form a live dog?

I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies - every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.

Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

Without you I wouldn't have moved this way, to speak the language of flowers.

Death often is the point of life's joke.

What are these hopes, and who is this savior?" "Imagination," replied Cincinnatus.

realidade (uma das poucas palavras que só fazem sentido entre aspas)