Quotes About Meaning

Harry looked into her eyes, then at her face and gently glided the tip of a finger over her cheek and traced the outline of her nose, his face and eyes in a soft and tender smile, You could really make my life worth while. A guy needs something to give his life a reason or whats the point of living? I need more than the streets. I don't want to be a floating crap game all my life. I want to be something … anything.

I was sitting at home and had a profound experience. I experienced, in all of my Being, that someday I was going to die, and it wouldn't be like it had been happening, almost dying but somehow staying alive, but I would just die! And two things would happen right before I died: I would regret my entire life; I would want to live it over again. This terrified me. The thought that I would live my entire life, look at it and realize I blew it forced me to do something with my life.

But I knew that someday I was going to die. And just before I died two things would happen; Number 1: I would regret my entire life. Number 2: I would want to live my life over again.

Life is more than meat, and it is also more than theory.

The divine meaning of a true friendship is that it is often the first unveiling of the secret of love. It is not an end in itself, but has most of its worth in what it leads to, the priceless gift of seeing with the heart rather than with the eyes. To love one soul for its beauty and grace and truth is to open the way to appreciate all beautiful and true and gracious souls, and to recognize spiritual beauty wherever it is seen.

One senses that Hegel was possible only in German, and finds it natural that Locke in a language where large and red precede apple should have arrived at the thing after sorting out its sensory qualities, whereas Descartes in a language where grosse et rouge follows pomme should have come to the attributes after the distinct idea.

Chesterton never achieves a great poem because his poems are compilations of statements not intensely felt but only intensely meant.

Love is a word. A sound. Its association with a particular feeling is arbitrary, unmeasurable, and ultimately meaningless

If things just keep going along as smoothly as if we're on a railway track, reassured by the regularity and predictability of that clickety-clack, clickety clack, why would we bother with introspection about the meaning and purpose of it all, let alone the direction we're taking? p37

Words are, of themselves, meaningless. We invest them with meaning, and, over time, come to feel as if certain words mean certain things. We construct dictionaries and then think they tell us what words mean, but dictionaries are mere historical documents, museums of meaning...

Wise Penelope! That's was Odysseus said to his wife when he got home. I don't think he ever told her he loved her. He probably knew the words would sound too small.

Death suddenly seemed unimportant and life seemed everything

Self-justification, that was the danger-- the exhilerating exercise of explaining why my ways are God's ways after all.

A twice-reflected sunlight is spreading over the wall opposite me: it is first picked up and reflected by the oval glass-in-lead window embedded in the wall, then reflected again by the zinc in slats of the awning next to it. It has no meaning; it's just a concatenation of circumstances, and yet it thrills me.

It is my belief that there are "absolutes" in our Bill of Rights, and that they were put there on purpose by men who knew what the words meant and meant their prohibitions to be "absolutes."

It is my belief that there are"absolutes" in our Bill of Rights, and that they were put there on purpose by men who knew what words meant and meant their prohibitions to be "absolutes."

When we do not succeed to be ourselves, we finally realize that is was completely useless to exist...

Das Leben flieht wie Sand dahin, Doch schwer umkehret sich der Sinn.

Depth must be hidden. Where? On the surface.

Words performed through music can express what language alone had exhausted

So las ich falsch in deinem Aug, dem tiefen? Kein heimlich Sehnen sah ich heiß dort funkeln? Es birgt zu deiner Seele keine Pforte Dein feuchter Blick? Die Wünsche, die dort schliefen, Wie stille Rosen in der Flut, der dunkeln, Sind, wie dein Plaudern: seellos... Worte, Worte?

La escritura es un pequeño equívoco sin importancia, tan pequeño que nos hace casi mudos

Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant.

To find meaning in the mystery of existence is life's final and fascinating challenge.