Quotes About Purpose

What we're doing here tonight doesn't matter a bit in the cruel scheme of the world, but we're doing it anyhow.

Life, if you keep chasing it so hard, will drive you to death. Time

I am going to spend as much time as I can creating delightful things out of my existence, because that's what brings me awake and that's what brings me alive. I

But why must everything have a practical application? I'd been such a diligent soldier for years--working, producing, never missing a deadline, taking care of my loved ones, my gums, and my credit record, voting, etc. Is this lifetime supposed to only be about duty?

Intracranial jewelry-making! What a cool job! That's basically what we all do--all of us who spend our days making and doing interesting things for no particularly rational reason.

O trabalho quer ser feito, e quer ser feito através de você.

So the question is not so much "What are you passionate about?" The question is "What are you passionate enough about that you can endure the most disagreeable aspects of the work?

Making a living is nothing, the great difficulty is making a point, making a difference - with words.

What the hell was that?" he hissed at Montgomery. "A question." The duke reached for another piece of toast. "Did you mean to alert him to our investigation on purpose?" Apollo growled. "Yes and no." Montgomery shrugged. "I'm bored. Nothing's happening. Sometimes it's best to send the fox into the chicken house to see if a snake slithers out.

Motivation is the power behind plot.

No creo que Dios haga que pasen cosas malas sólo para que la gente pueda crecer espiritualmente.

You are what you are, and the gods may have plans for you now that you were not able to fulfill then.

Could anything so handsome, so decorative, so…so enthusiastic…possibly be useful?

I had had my night of weeping...I had purged myself of useless emotions that terrible night, now every nerve every sinew, every thought was bent on a single purpose

These men, knowing full well that they were eyewitnesses to monumental events, read meaning and purpose into every detail of the surrender conference, and their accounts reveal that the seeds of continuing strife were sown at the very moment of Union victory and Confederate defeat.

You might as well live

and everybody will have what they never yet have had, a certain amount of that priceless boon, leisure-- leisure to sit down and look at themselves, and inquire what it is they really mean, and really want, and really intend to do with their lives.

Why do anything-- why wash my hair, why read Moby Dick, why fall in love, why sit through six hours of Nicholas Nickleby, why care about American intervention in Central America, why spend time trying to get into the right schools, why dance to the music when all of us are just slouching toward the same inevitable conclusion? The shortness of life, I keep saying, makes everything seem pointless when I think about the longness of death.

I was scared of the way I felt as I ran away, knowing that if I stopped, I might have to confront the reason I was always running - and I'd have to admit that there was no reason. Run, run, run. Was it toward something or away from something else?

I was scared of the way I felt when I ran away, knowing that if I stopped, I might have to confront the reason why I was always running - and I'd have to admit that there was no reason. Run, run, run. Was it toward something or away from something else? The senselessness of this display was too upsetting and contemplate.

Once, I remember, Father Abbot said that our purpose is justice, and with God lies the privilege of mercy. But even God, when he intends mercy, needs tools to his hand.

What is done matters, but what is yet to do matters far more.

What you do and what you are is what matters.

What matters is to leave what has always been, and look for what has never been yet. I had had riches and marriage and a child, and I had nothing. Nothing is not enough for any man. The only answer is to abandon that nothing, and go in search of something. A different kind of treasure, perhaps. A different kind of salvation. Perhaps not salvation at all, only the loss of oneself.