Life, so it used to seem to me, my dear Regina, is a formless and forever shifting stuff, a globe of molten glass, say, which we have been flung, and which, without even the crudest of instruments, with only our bare hands, we must shape into a perfect sphere, in order to be able to contain it within ourselves.
Life is an Olympic Game hosted by a group of lunatics.
Life is a series of pulls back and forth. You want to do one thing, but you are bound to do something else. Something hurts you, yet you know it shouldn't. You take certain things for granted, even when you know you should never take anything for granted. A tension of opposites, like a pull on a rubber band. And most of us live somewhere in the middle.
He said life was like a bowl of wormwood which one sips a little at a time world without end. He understood the nature of tragedy.
Life is more hellish than hell.
So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.
Life is like a box of matches: it is silly to treat it seriously but it is dangerous not to treat it seriously.
Now, comrades, what is the nature of this life of ours? Let us face it: our lives are miserable, laborious, and short.
Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
At a very early period she had apprehended instinctively the dual life—that outward existence which conforms, the inward life which questions.
We can never know what to want, because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come.
She wants to live for once. But doesn’t know quite what that means.
Life is far too important a thing to talk seriously about.
The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.
I think life too complex a thing to be settled by these hard and fast rules.
But it is a corrupting thing to live one's real life in secret. One should live with the stream of life, not against it
He was always struggling to be different, even when it didn’t matter. It was as if he was performing his life instead of living his life.
Human life, we must assume in the first place, is somewhat more important than anything else in human life, except, possibly, what happens to it.
Anyone can nurture a myth about their life if they have enough manure.
Ah, what is the life of a human being—a drop of dew, a flash of lightning?
If you don’t hurry up and let life know what you want, life will damned soon show you what you’ll get.
Life is hell anyway, but if there is any fun to be got out of it you’re only a god-damn fool if you don’t get it.
This is one of the cruelties of the theatre of life; we all think of ourselves as stars and rarely recognize it when we are indeed mere supporting characters.
A man sometimes devotes his life to a desire which he is not sure will ever be fulfilled. Those who laugh at this folly are, after all, no more than mere spectators of life.
There are more important things in life than being prudent.
I held that life was a ferment, a yeasty something which devoured life that it might live, and that living was merely successful piggishness.
If we have only one life to live,we might as well not have lived at all.
Wrong, wrong: for our lives contain us, we are the flaw in the crystal, the speck of grit which must be ejected from the spinning sphere.
We don't have a plan, we just do our best to get through the day, because there'll be another one coming along tomorrow.
But we are the sum of all the moments of our lives — all that is ours is in them: we cannot escape or conceal it.
Life becomes a series of small but sweet happenings. Sometimes the movie turns out to be terrific, after all.
It was a primitive life, that of her childhood, with few conventions,but such as there were, stern ones. And they might be epitomized, asshe had read somewhere in her later years, as "the faith of food andblanket."
Her life, which had proceeded as smoothly as a sonata, as regularly as a rondo, for so many years, had become suddenly discordant, filled with faulty fingering.