We're just a bubble in a boiling pot.

I can get very philosophical and ask the questions Keats was asking as a young guy. What are we here for? What's a soul? What's it all about? What is thinking about, imagination?

People fear death even more than pain. It's strange that they fear death. Life hurts a lot more than death. At the point of death, the pain is over. Yeah, I guess it is a friend.

There is nothing at all to be done about it, There is nothing to do about anything.

Anything can happen: anything. Or nothing. Who can say? The world, monstrous, is made that way, and in the end consumes us all. Who am I, administrated or no, to have the audacity to survive it?

There is no escape from me, not even in death.

From the beginning, through the middle years and up to the end: too bad, too bad, too bad.

Sometimes I didn't think the world was worth it. Saving. Sometimes I didn't think I was worth it either.

The question isn't Why do we die? The question is Why do we live?

The same numbness and disappointment every day sends some people looking for something tragic for proof of life.

Every phenomenon is a corrupt version of another, larger phenomenon: time, a disease of eternity; history, a disease of time; life, again, a disease of matter. Then what is normal, what is healthy?...

... but since I realised that peace and freedom were unattainable on earth, my spirit aspired aloft, and everything that my chosen path required ceased to conflict with my conscience, because my...

No matter how close people get, they never reach each other. Including us now. Even now, there's a place where each of us is alone.

That was the worst truth of all: alone. The word was a kind of death.

Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,And look on death itself!

Mechanism! Everywhere - - mechanism! Devices for getting away from life so complete that there seemed no life to get away from.

I'm evolving, is the thing; I'm a god becoming a constellation. The constellations are mostly demigods,' I point out. 'And they didn't get to be constellations until after they died.' He laughs at...

A day came when I should have died, and after that nothing seemed very important, so I stayed as I am, without regret separated from the normal human condition.

An hour would be enough. An hour with my head on the pillow beside yours, foreheads touching, eyes locked with eyes {just the two of us, mind you, minus that sodding cat}; an hour to smell the smell...

In the presence of death reason and philosophy are silent

I think: perhaps the sky is a huge sea of fresh water and we, instead of walking under it, walk on top of it; perhaps we see everything upside down and the earth is a kind of sky, so that when we die,...

Have I had two roads, I would have chosen their third.

Mirrors on the ceiling, The pink champagne on ice And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device' And in the master's chambers, They gathered for the feast They stab it with their...

His eyes close, and he draws a long breath. When they open again, they're colder than ever. And that's where you'd be disappointed, Lou. There is no good to be found in Death.

Our life is a journey, through winter and night, We look for our way, in a sky without light.

All beings so far have created something beyond themselves; and do you want to be the ebb of this great flood and even go back to the beasts rather than overcome man? What is the ape to man? A...

Anything which is a living thing and not a dying body... will have to be an incarnate will to power, it will strive to grow, spread, seize, become predominant - not from any morality or immorality but...

Well, then, what's the plan now? You can't stay here forever.'My plan was indeed to stay there forever.

That boy never seemed to smile and he wore long sleeves year-round, and I was not so different from him - we were both unable to get near the real life in life.

Mine, said the stone, mine is the hour. I crush the scissors, such is my power. Stronger than wishes, my power, alone. Mine, said the paper, mine are the words that smother the stone with imagined...