Quotes About Emptiness

È come se… non vedessi più le cose a colori, sai? Guardo qualcosa e penso di sapere com'è, e poi penso a come sembrerebbe il mondo senza Deacon, e tutto diventa bianco e nero.

When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum....

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little inkdrops, And posting it.

I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you

Many people can and have written books, but many have nothing to say.

Ya no temblaba. No sentía. Todo huía de mí, como los pájaros de Andersen, hacia las Tierras Calientes. No podía llorar, y me tendí suavemente en el suelo mientras oía, o creía oír, el despacioso vaivén de la puerta del pasillo, perdiendo fuerza. Y un campanilleo medio sofocado por el silencio, el silencio que iba repitiendo una voz sin sonido: «Ven, ven, ven…». Fue la primera vez que me morí.

The moment a book is lent I begin to miss it.

The sadness of churches at night moves me; I feel in them the grandeur of nothingness.

In every household the Revolution had emptied the cooking-pot.

Minha morte só tomará de mim eu mesmo; é por isso que me tomará tudo e não me tomará nada, já que não haverá mais ninguém para ter perdido o que quer que seja.

We talk about things. We talk about nothing.

For our excess we lost everything.

La sua tendenza è sempre stata quella di saltare fuori in tempo dal conforto decrescente degli stati raggiunti, scappare verso le sorprese del nuovo o verso il vuoto rigenerante della solitudine, cancellare le nostalgie, ripartire da zero.

But somewhere in America, between the freeways and the Food-4-Less, between the filling stations and the 5-o-'clock news, behind the blue blinking light coming off the TV, there is a space, an empty space, between us, around us, inside us, that inevitable, desperate, begs to be filled up. And nothing, not shame, not God, not a new microwave, not a wide-screen TV or that new diet with grapefruits, can ever, ever fill it. Underneath all that white noise there's a lack.

The difference between a modern artist and a Buddhist monk is in the approach. The artist goes into the void empt and returns with a souvenir, if you will. The monk approaches the void with a traditional body of knowledge and arrives at emptiness. Our world, no less than that of the monks, is full of junk that gets in the way of spiritual practice. The artist plays with the junk, the monk orders it into nothingness.

I pray for the gift of silence, Of emptiness and solitude, Where everything I touch is turned into prayer:

They faced each other at opposite ends of an illusion.

It was all over: dead. He had no idea, where Frankie had gone. But what was worse, he was everywhere.

While his life was impeccable on the surface, he felt he was behind glass; moving through the world in a separate compartment, touching no one else.

I am in fact so depressed that last night while Bob Cjaneovic was sitting on my face, I began to think how futile life is, no matter what you do—it all ends in Death, we are given such a short time, and everything truly is, as Ecclesiastes says, Vanity, Vanity, Vanity. Of course that only made me burrow deeper, but still—to have the thought.

Nobody can prepare you for the loss of a parent.

Even in the presence of others he was completely alone.

My life is actually empty, so I feel like I'm lying to everyone by pretending to be happy on the outside.

Losing my daughter was a very serious pain. There was always some empty space in my heart.