Quotes About Meaning

Els punts i final ens agraden: les simetries, trobar sentit al que no en té -¿és potser aquesta, la gran tasca de la literatura: explicar-nos el món per fer-nos creure que té sentit?

I penetrated to the heart of the forest, he says, sacrificed myself, and brought back—you. He

The world is full of people looking for meaning in the shape of a bird not native to this country turning up in this country after all.

After this painting they look flat and old-fashioned, as if they're stale dramas and pretending to be real. This one at least admits the whole thing's a performance. Or perhaps it is just that George has spent proper time looking at this one painting and that every single experience of looking at something would be this good if she devoted time to everything she looked at.

Life? was what you worked to catch, the intense happiness of an object slightly set apart from you.

Everything means something quite other now.

I think nonsense raises two human urges. One: to be playful, be curious and curiouser, and 2: to make meaning out what seems to have none. Or flaunt having none. And since everything we do, being human, is up against time, nonsense is panacheful, cocks a snook at all the rules and regulations and reminds us of our freedoms up against the clock.

In our era, it is because poetry is no longer practiced that some people can rediscover it in argot, in which the part of poetry remains small. Metaphors are to argot what the image of the Gypsy is to the Gypsy

Death alone gives meaning to life, and you will never fully live until you know you must die. And make your peace with that knowledge.

Some truth has no nourishment in it.

Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give values to survival.

The day should be as it was sure to be-- When this was home no more to him--when he Could go there only when his brother's wife Should ask him--to a room not his--his life Would shrink and lose its meaning. How unjust, I thought. Why do they feel it must Go to that idle, insolent eldest son? Well, in the end it went to neither one.

How old, how commonplace To look upon the face Of your first-born, and glory in your lot. To look upon his face And understand your place Among the unknown dead in churchyards lying, To see the reason why You lived and why you die-- Even to find a certain grace in dying.

I remembered how de Man had said to us in class, 'don't confuse any of this literary theory with your lives'—how we hadn't believed him, how we had wanted our criticism to tell us how to think and how to speak and how to live. De Man made literature matter more than anything in the world and then said it was only literature.

Who do you serve? Do you serve somebody? I serve the poem, no one.

We could never sit at this kitchen table without our terrible and beautiful past and our poems that tell us who we are.

I have no hope then? the patient asks. There is no hope or change. Have I not changed? the patient asks. How could anything so empty change?

I want to know the thing that will justify my time, all the time I've spent doing shit jobs. Stupid work.

I don't know what's the point of it, being

But this is a story of the end. don't you want to hear it

Why am I alive?

I don't listen when someone says god. I don't want to talk about god.

I don't know why it was a tragedy, the world.

A razão do sacrifício religioso (Saturno) é o fato de só podermos dar algo que, antes de tudo, temos verdadeiramente. Assim, ao "sacrificá-lo", santificamos a sua presença ab origine dentro de nós.