1,047 Quotes About Meaning-of-life

В ту пору Корнелий, выскакивая из дома, замечал всякую мелочь. Как переливается радуга в капельке росы: чуть поведёшь головой - и солнечная искра делается то алой, то лимонной, то фиолетовой... Как золотятся свежие щепки у недостроенной беседки. Как торопится в щель на крыльце чёрно-зелёный жук (и на спине у него тоже точка солнца)...Может, в этой нехитрой радости созерцания как раз и есть смысл жизни?

I am a human being, meant to be in perpetual becoming. My goal is not to remain the same but to live in such a way that each day, year, moment, relationship, conversation , and crisis is the material I use to become a truer, more beautiful version of myself.

To find a meaning or to create a meaning; there is no crucial difference as long as it takes away the unpleasant odors of the mortal existence.

The glacial landscape reminded her that she was, first and foremost, a human living on a planet. Almost everything she had done in her life, she realised - almost everything she has bought and worked for and consumed - had taken her away from understanding that she and all humans were really just one of nine million species.

we live our lives collecting guests for our funerals

People have all these opinions on what happens when we die and stand at the front gates of Heaven. People think we'll be asked if we were holy, if we were righteous, if we did good deeds. But I think we'll be asked if we loved a wild love, if we loved with all our soul, if we knew a love worth living for. Have you known a wild love? Have you told someone everything in your heart? That's what they'll ask us.

I feel that my life is devoid of meaning and I no longer see any reason in the acts I perform or the words I say, and it astonishes me that other people can move about outside this nightmare of mine... that they can act and speak.

The taste of life, the taste for life. That is never satisfied. That never can be satisfied, because life even as we are in the very act of living it, is so ravenously hungering after itself, that it never lets itself be fully tasted. The taste for life comes to us from the past, from the memories that hold us bound, but bound to what? To this folly of ours? To this mass of vexations? To so many stupid illusions? To so many insipid occupations?

Why seek some higher truth and service, when all the truth is in the fact that you're worth nothing and won't be worth anything anymore, that everything that you came into the world to do, you've done long ago, and that your only work now is to be a burden to others. Is that so? Is it?