Quotes About Consciousness

If this be to have sense, if to be awake Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things, For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take And for truth commune with imaginings

O meu misticismo é não querer saber. É viver e não pensar nisso.

Pensar uma flor é vê-la e cheirá-la E comer um fruto é saber-lhe o sentido.

To live is to not think.

What does a river know about this and what does a tree know? And I, who am no more than those, what do I know? Every time I look at things and think about what men think about them, I laugh like how a brook sounds cool on a stone.

At other times I wake up from the half sleep I'd fallen into, and hazy images with poetical and unpredictable colours play out their silent show to my inattention.

O homem não difere do animal senão em saber que o não é. É a primeira luz, que não é mais que treva visível. É o começo, porque ver a treva é ter a luz dela. É o fim, porque é o saber, pela vista, que se nasceu cego. Assim o animal se torna homem pela ignorância que nele nasce

Und so schleppe ich mein Leben damit hin, das zu tun, was ich nicht will, und das zu erträumen, was ich nicht haben kann, absurd wie eine stehen-gebliebene öffentliche Uhr. Nur die zarte, aber feste Sensibilität, der lange, aber vollauf bewusste Traum, bilden in ihrer Gesamtheit mein Halbschattenprivileg.

A consciência da insonsciência da vida é o mais antigo imposto à inteligência.

Wise is the man who has the potential for height in his muscles but who renounces climbing in his consciousness. By virtue of his gaze, he has all hills, and by virtue of his position, all valleys.

The entire life of the human soul is mere motions in the shadows. We live in a twilight of consciousness, never in accord with whom we are or think we are. Everyone harbours some kind of vanity, and there's an error whose degree we can't determine. We're something that goes on during the show's intermission; sometimes, through certain doors, we catch a glimpse of what may be no more than scenery. The world is one big confusion, like voices in the night.

I sleep and unsleep.

I forget. I don't see. I don't think.

We almost always live outside ourselves, and life itself is a continual dispersion. But it's towards ourselves that we tend, as towards a centre around which, like planets, we trace absurd and distant ellipses.

But everything is absurd, and dreaming least of all.

Great mysteries inhabit the threshold of my being.

It was just a moment, and I saw myself. I can no longer even say what I was. And now I'm sleepy, because I think – I don't know why – that the meaning of it all is to sleep.

Isn't love at least a means of possessing ourselves through our sensations? Isn't it at least a way of dreaming vividly, and therefore more gloriously, the dream that we exist?

The lack of respect between men, the indifference that allows them to kill others without compunction (as murderers do) or without thinking that they are killing (as soldiers do), comes from the fact that no one pays due attention to the apparently abstruse idea that other people have souls too.

Between my sleeping and dreaming, Between me and the one in me Who I suppose I am, A river flows without end. "30 August 1933

We feel the weather even when we are unaware that we do.

Sou místico, mas só com o corpo. A minha alma é simples e não pensa.

Life would be unbearable if we made ourselves conscious of it.

O inexplicável horror De saber que esta vida é verdadeira, Que é uma coisa real, que é [como um] ser Em todo o seu mistério [...] Realmente real.