Man, when reduced to nothing, or in other words, a survivor, is not tragic but comic, because he has no fate. On the other hand, he lives with an awareness of tragic fate. This is a paradox.
I read somewhere; while God still existed one sustained a dialogue with God, and now that He no longer exists one has to sustain a dialogue with other people, I guess, or, better still, with oneself, that is to say, one talks or mumbles to oneself.
Everyone here makes a botch of his life. That's the local specialty, the genius loci. Anyone who doesn't botch up his life here simply has no talent.
Good can be done in a life in which Evil is the life principle, but only at the cost of the doer's sacrificing his life.
A person's true means of expression is his life. Living the shame of life and maintaining silence, that was the greatest accomplishment of all.
I exist. Is this a life still? No, just vegetating. It seems that only one philosophy can succeed the philosophy of existentialism: nonexistentialism, the philosophy of nonexistent existence.
If a person resolves to fight, he ought to know what he is fighting for. Otherwise it makes no sense. A person usually fights against a power in order to gain power himself. Or else because the power in question is threatening his life.
How can we do justice even when it concerns truth itself, since for me only one truth exists, my truth, even if it is a delusion, yes, my delusion; my delusion.
There was truth in Diaz's logic, yes: our line of work is like that. Once you have started, the only way back is to go forward.
If one takes the path of success, then one ends up either successful or unsuccessful, there is no third alternative.
Only from our stories can we discover that our stories have come to an end, otherwise we would go on living as if there were still something for us to continue (our stories, for example); that is, we would go on living in error.
Boredom. He takes it with him everywhere, like an angry shaggy terrier that he sets on others from time to time.
He himself had said near enough exactly what was in the play. The only snag was that by the time that scene was played out in reality, almost word for word, the person who had written the play, and that scene in it, was no longer alive. He had committed suicide.
I had gotten into the habit of sleeping late because I had started to see that this was the only sensible way I could kill time.
If you're a revolutionary, you shouldn't have started a family.