Quotes About Meaning

Paul Davies's The Mind of God seems to hover somewhere between Einsteinian pantheism and an obscure form of deism—for

I have devoted a whole book (Unweaving the Rainbow) to ultimate meaning, to the poetry of science, and to rebutting, specifically and at length, the charge of nihilistic negativity, so I shall restrain myself here.

Human suffering has been caused because too many of us cannot grasp that words are only tools for our use, and that the mere presence in the dictionary of a word like 'living' does not mean it necessarily has to refer to something definite in the real world. Whether

dinin gerçekten de kötü etkilerinden biri, anlamadan tatmin olman?n bize bir erdem olduÄŸunu öÄŸretmesidir.

Problems arise when (especially) theologians use such metaphorical language without realizing that that is what they are doing, and without even realizing that there is a distinction between metaphor and reality – saying something like: 'It is not important whether Jesus really fed the five thousand. What matters is what the idea of the story means to us.' Actually it is important, because millions of devout people do believe the Bible is literally true.

Humans have always wondered about the meaning of life... life has no higher purpose than to perpetuate the survival of DNA... life has no design, no purpose, no evil and no good, nothing but blind pitiless indifference.

Az értelmes élet egy bolygón akkor éri el a nagykorúságot, amikor elsÅ' ízben dolgozza ki saját létének indoklását.

Books have a way of finding their way into our lives, usually, right when we need them the most.

We are seldom taught that the key to experiencing a meaningful life is to make a difference in the lives of others.

wanted to believe the Darwinian idea. I chose to believe it not because I think there was enormous evidence for it, nor because it had the full authority to give interpretation to my origins, but I chose to believe it because it delivered me from trying to find meaning and freed me to my own erotic passions.

He could never admit to himself that it was death that had given his life meaning.

They talked about fishing, food, winds and stonework; about growing tomatoes, keeping poultry and roasting lamb, catching crayfish and scallops; telling tales, jokes; the meaning of their stories nothing, the drift of them everything; the brittle and beautiful dream itself.

But sometimes things are said and they're not just words. They are everything that one person thinks of another in a sentence. Just one sentence.

One man's feeling is not always equal to all life is. Sometimes it's not equal to anything much at all.

One man's feeling is not always equal to all life is. Sometimes it's not equal to anything much at all.

Why do you love words so? he heard Amy ask. ... They were the first beautiful thing I ever knew, Dorrigo Evans said.

Maybe he doesn't really think it now. But sometimes things are said and they're not just words. They are everything that one person thinks of another in a sentence. Just one sentence.

All life is only allegory and the real story is not here...

People kept on longing for meaning and hope, but the annals of the past are a muddy story of chaos only.

I just wanted to tell a story of love & it was about fish & it was about me & it was about everything

And suddenly one note came back to us, just bounced back off the walls and rose from the floor and filled the place with this perfect hum...These two completely different things, a note and a room, finding each other. It sounded...right. Am I being ridiculous? Do you think that's what we mean by love, Mr. Evans? The note that comes back to you? That finds you even when you don't want to be found?

Without love, what was the world?

Decades would pass. A few short sections would be formed in time into strangely resurrected, trunkless legs-tourist sites, sacred sites, national sites. For the line was broken, as all lines finally are; it was on longing for meaning and hope, but the annals of the past are a muddy story of chaos only. And of that colossal ruin, boundless and buried, the lone and level jungle stretched far away. Of imperial dreams and dead men, all that remained was long grass.

There was no meaning in it, not then and now now, but you can't write that, can you?