Life is
made up of marble and mud.
All men
live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round
their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn
of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever present
perils of life.
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Life's but
a walking shadow, a poor player
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That struts
and frets his hour upon the stage,
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And then is
heard no more. It is a tale
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Told by an
idiot, full of sound and fury,
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Signifying
nothing.
It's
extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull
ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it's just as well; and it may
be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the
incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome. Nevertheless,
there can be but few of us who had never known one of these rare
moments of awakening when we see, hear, understand ever so much —
everything — in a flash — before we fall back again into our
agreeable somnolence.
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A useless
life is but an early death.
Stuff your
eyes with wonder ... live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See
the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in
factories. Ask no guarantees, ask for no security, there never was
such an animal. And if there were, it would be related to the great
sloth which hangs upside down in a tree all day every day, sleeping
its life away. To hell with that ... shake the tree and knock the
great sloth down on his ass.
They killed
the flirt whom folks called Life for leading them on. Making them
think the next sunrise would be worth it; that another stroke of
time would do it at last. Only when she was dead would they be
safe. The successful ones — the ones who had been there enough
years to have maimed, mutilated, maybe even buried her — kept watch
over the others who were still in her cock-teasing hug, caring and
looking forward, remembering and looking back.
Nobody ever
lives their life all the way up except bull-fighters.
Life is
short; this being so, who would pursue great things and not bear
with what is at hand? These are the ways of madmen and men of evil
counsel, at least in my judgment.
I often
wonder: suppose we could begin life over again, knowing what we
were doing? Suppose we could use one life, already ended, as a sort
of rough draft for another? I think that every one of us would try,
more than anything else, not to repeat himself, at the very least
he would rearrange his manner of life, he would make sure of rooms
like these, with flowers and light ... I have a wife and two
daughters, my wife's health is delicate and so on and so on, and if
I had to begin life all over again I would not marry. ... No,
no!
Yes, in my
life, since we must call it so, there were three things, the
inability to speak, the inability to be silent, and solitude,
that’s what I’ve had to make the best of.
Enjoying
living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you
had it.
It is
nothing to die; it is horrible not to live.
It seems to
me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or
action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our
death brings no pleasure on the world.
What was
life? It was warmth, the warmth generated by a form-preserving
instability, a fever of matter, which accompanied the process of
ceaseless decay and repair of protein molecules that were too
impossibly ingenious in structure.
Life
appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity, or
registering wrongs.
Droll thing
life is — that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a
futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of
yourself — that comes too late — a crop of unextinguishable
regrets.
The world
breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places.
But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and
the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of
these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no
special hurry.
Everybody
knows life isn't worth living.
Living was
a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust
of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing.
Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg
and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the
far side of the valley and the hills beyond.
Life is far
too important a thing ever to talk seriously about it.
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Dear
friend, all theory is gray,
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And green
the golden tree of life.
There are
men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an
after-dinner hour with a cigar; easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps
enlivened by some fable of strife to be forgotten — before the end
is told — even if there happens to be any end to it.
Life is
obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated.
Life isn't
hard to manage when you've nothing to lose.
What is
life but a series of inspired follies?
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Nor love
thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest
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Live well;
how long, or short, permit to Heaven.
He has
spent his life best who has enjoyed it most.