Quotes About Meaning

As for hobbies, people with stimulating hobbies suffer from the most noxious of despairs since they are tranquilized in their despair.

This is the perennial danger which besets semiotics: what with man being preeminently the sign-using creature, and what with man using signs in everything that he does, semiotics runs the risk of being about everything and hence about nothing.

The name of the enemy is death, he said, grinning and shoving his hands in his pockets. Not the death of dying but the living death. The

Cassirer asks the question, How can a sensory content become the vehicle of meaning?

Or is it because he believes that God himself is present here at the corner of Elysian Fields and Bons Enfants?

Joy said she hadn't really understood the meaning of life until Tyffanie had come along, but now she understood it perfectly. Well, great, I felt like saying. Make sure you share the news with Plato and Kierkegaard and all those other philosophers who'd banged their heads against the wall, trying to figure things out.

I love you was just three meaningless words without the actions that went with them

You know what 'Dolores' means? It's Latin, means sadness. Our Lady of Sorrow. Why are you so sad?

If the book is true, it will find an audience that is meant to read it.

What made him most anxious, he told me, was not the big questions—the mercilessness of fate, the possibility of heaven. He was too exhausted, he said, to wrestle with those. But he'd become impatient with the way people wasted their lives, squandered their chances like paychecks.

I'd gone to her directly from Dr. Shaw's office - gone without an appointment to find out if happiness was a football you caught or something more complicated, something you had to invent.

If you want me again look for me under your bootsoles. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good help to you nevertheless And filter and fiber your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop some where waiting for you

Your very flesh shall be a great poem...

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.

But where is what I started for so long ago? And why is it yet unfound?

The question, O me! so sad, recurring - What good amid these, O me, O life? That you are here - that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

The words of my book are nothing, the drift of it everything.

I swear I begin to see the meaning of these things. It is not the earth, it is not America, who is so great, it is I who am great or to be great…

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

No es la vida el desperdicio de muertes infinitas?

The poet] is no arguer . . . he is judgment. He judges not as the judge judges but as the sun falling around a helpless thing.

The words of true poems are the tuft and final applause of science.

What ever satisfies the soul is truth.

Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing