Quotes About Meaning

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being

How long does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? A week, or several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say 'for ever'? Lost in these preoccupation I set myself to clear things up. .... In my own country the undertakers answered me, between drinks: 'Get yourself a good woman and give up this nonsense.' And How Long - Pablo Neruda

How much does a man live, after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say 'for ever'?

Tai kiek gyvena zmogus? Tukstanti metu ar vienus? Gyvena savaite ar keleta amziu? Kiek laiko mirsta zmogus? Ka reiskia amzinybe?

I nothing saves us from death at least love should save us from life

Papa te llamas papa y no patata

How much does a man live after all? Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries? How long does a man spend dying? What does it mean to say for ever?

When art critics get together they talk about Form and Structure and Meaning. When artists get together they talk about where you can buy cheap turpentine.

People want to find a meaning in everything and everyone. That's the disease of our age...

In art intentions are not sufficient and, as we say in Spanish, love must be proved by deeds and not by reasons. What one does is what counts and not what one had the intention of doing.

The Meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away

We talk about certain statements as having a "ring of truth" to them, as if a sentence is a tuning fork, something that we can tap and listen to for its tone. And I think that's right. Truth has a hum to it. You can tell.

I always tell my students, about the biggest baddest things in life you must try to write small and light, save the big writing for the unexpected tiny thing that always makes or breaks a story.

Some aspects of true religion are accepted almost universally. Who, indeed, would deny them? Were anyone to declare that Jesus Christ's real meaning in the verse, "Except ye . . . become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 18:3), was that we should all put on rompers and play on the beach with spades and buckets, he would be merely laughed at. To be childlike is not the same thing at all as to be childish.

Vocation at its deepest level is, This is something I can't not do, for reasons I'm unable to explain to anyone else and don't fully understand myself but that are nonetheless compelling.

La vie est faite d'histoires sans queue ni tête: ces fariboles se suivent dans un ordre dont on ne saisit pas la raison; mais on cherche, parbleu, on cherche! Il faudra pourtant s'en contenter; la vie est notre best-seller quotidien. Quant à la morale de la fable, c'est ce que nous découvrirons à la fin, ou que nous n'apprendrons jamais. La vie vaut-elle d'être vécue? Tant mieux si les hasards de l'existence ne nous imposent pas une opinion bien tranchée!

Fear, tenderness - these emotions were so despised that they could be admitted into consciousness only at the cost of redefining what it meant to be a man.

It was one of those moments that I think everybody experiences - and they don't have to be dramatic - when things begin to change; and you know there's no point ruminating about it, because thinking isn't going to help you understand. You're not ready to understand it yet; you have to live your way into the meaning.

And I realize there's another group of words that still mean something. Little words that trip through sentences unregarded: us, them, we, they, here, there. These are the words of power, and long after we're gone, they'll lie about in the language, like the unexploded grenades in these fields, and anyone of them'll take your hand off.

It's impossible to explain to a Yankee what `tacky' is. They simply have no word for it up north, but my God, do they ever need one.

Except for memory, time would have no meaning at all.

The words "I love you" could contain all the bloodthirsty despair of the abattoir, all the hopelessness of the most isolated, frozen gulag, all the lurid sadness of death row.

Don't go yet. Please. Tell me a story, one about us. Tell what it meant. How on earth did it happen? The story, Pat—tell it to me.

i was delighted I had offended her upholstered sensibilities.