Life Quotes

Share Your Quotes Join Us Inspire & Move Your Friends

How do you feel today?    I feel ...

These are quotes tagged with "life".

Add to my favourites Get these quotes on a PDF
Life does not happen to us, it happens from us.

We quaff the cup of life with eager haste without draining it, instead of which it only overflows the brim -- objects press around us, filling the mind with the throng of desires that wait upon them, so that we have no room for the thoughts of death.
Life! Life! Don't let us go to life for our fulfillment or our experience. It is a thing narrowed by circumstances, incoherent in its utterance, and without that fine correspondence of form and spirit which is the only thing that can satisfy the artistic
Life, Lady Stutfield, is simply a mauvais quart d'heure made up of exquisite moments.
If I had been present at creation, I would have given some useful hints.
I sit astride life like a bad rider on a horse. I only owe it to the horse's good nature that I am not thrown off at this very moment.
The interest in life does not lie in what people do, nor even in their relations to each other, but largely in the power to communicate with a third party, antagonistic, enigmatic, yet perhaps persuadable, which one may call life in general.
Life is not a series of gig lamps symmetrically arranged; life is a luminous halo, a semi-transparent envelope surrounding us from the beginning of consciousness to the end.
I have an existential map; it has you are here written all over it.
Two babies were born on the same day at the same hospital. They lay there and looked at each other. Their families came and took them away. Eighty years later, by a bizarre coincidence, they lay in the same hospital, on their deathbeds, next to each other. One of them looked at the other and said, so. What did you think?
The purpose of life is the expansion of happiness.
The continuous invention of new ways of observing is man's special secret of living.
Man wants to live, but it is useless to hope that this desire will dictate all his actions.
One should not confuse the craving for life with endorsement of it.
Life has no meaning unless one lives it with a will, at least to the limit of one's will. Virtue, good, evil are nothing but words, unless one takes them apart in order to build something with them; they do not win their true meaning until one knows how to apply them.
A life-worshipper's philosophy is comprehensive. He is at one moment a positivist and at another a mystic: now haunted by the thought of death and now a Dionysian child of nature; now a pessimist and now, with a change of lover or liver or even the weather, an exuberant believer that God's in his heaven and all's right with the world.
Nothing can be meaner than the anxiety to live on, to live on anyhow and in any shape; a spirit with any honor is not willing to live except in its own way, and a spirit with any wisdom is not over-eager to live at all.
Everywhere one seeks to produce meaning, to make the world signify, to render it visible. We are not, however, in danger of lacking meaning; quite the contrary, we are gorged with meaning and it is killing us.
Just as all thought, and primarily that of non-signification, signifies something, so there is no art that has no signification.
The fact that life has no meaning is a reason to live --moreover, the only one.
This is it. There are no hidden meanings. All that mystical stuff is just what's so.
If you seek, how is that different from pursuing sound and form? If you don't seek, how are you different from earth, wood, or stone? You must seek without seeking.
The deeper the experience of an absence of meaning -- in other words, of absurdity --the more energetically meaning is sought.
Search for meaning, eat, sleep. Search for meaning, eat, sleep. Die, search for meaning, search for meaning, search for meaning.
The real being, with no status, is always going in and out through the doors of your face.
If God exists and we are made in his image we can have real meaning, and we can have real knowledge through what he has communicated to us.
Dare to err and to dream. Deep meaning often lies in childish plays.
Those who talk on the razor-edge of double-meanings pluck the rarest blooms from the precipice on either side.
There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.
The mountains, rivers, earth, grasses, trees, and forests are always emanating a subtle, precious light, day and night, always emanating a subtle, precious sound, demonstrating and expounding to all people the unsurpassed ultimate truth.
To look at the cross-section of any plan of a big city is to look at something like the section of a fibrous tumor.
The screech and mechanical uproar of the big city turns the citified head, fills citified ears -- as the song of birds, wind in the trees, animal cries, or as the voices and songs of his loved ones once filled his heart. He is sidewalk-happy.
This city now doth, like a garment, wear the beauty of the morning; silent bare, ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
One belongs to New York instantly. One belongs to it as much in five minutes as in five years.
The cities of America are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their learning too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than an atmosphere; their Hub, as they call it, is the paradise of prigs. Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustles and bores. Political life at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry. Baltimore is amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; and though one can dine in New York one could not dwell there.
A great city is that which has the greatest men and women.
Through this broad street, restless ever, ebbs and flows a human tide, wave on wave a living river; wealth and fashion side by side; Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide.
The great city is that which has the greatest man or woman: if it be a few ragged huts, it is still the greatest city in the whole world.
All things atrocious and shameless flock from all parts to Rome.
In place of a world, there is a city, a point, in which the whole life of broad regions is collecting while the rest dries up. In place of a type-true people, born of and grown on the soil, there is a new sort of nomad, cohering unstably in fluid masses, the parasitical city dweller, traditionless, utterly matter-of-fact, religionless, clever, unfruitful, deeply contemptuous of the countryman and especially that highest form of countryman, the country gentleman.