Words may shew a man’s Wit, but Actions his Meaning.
Words are for meaning: when you’ve got the meaning, you can forget the words.
The quest for certainty blocks the search for meaning. Uncertainty is the very condition to impel man to unfold his powers.
Meaning and reality were not hidden somewhere behind things, they were in them, in all of them.
Destroy my desires, wipe out my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you.[Уничтожьте мои желания, сотрите мои идеалы, покажите мне что‑нибудь лучше, и я за вами пойду.]
Words can be meaningless. If they are used in such a way that no sharp conclusions can be drawn.
Words are always getting conventionalized to some secondary meaning. It is one of the works of poetry to take the truants in custody and bring them back to their right senses. Poets are the policemen of language; they are always arresting those old reprobates the words.
When the shrivelled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning it satisfies the senses amazingly.
What is the meaning of human life, or of organic life altogether? To answer this question at all implies a religion. Is there any sense then, you ask, in putting it? I answer, the man who regards his own life and that of his fellow creatures as meaningless is not merely unfortunate but almost disqualified for life.
True love is rare, and it’s the only thing that gives life real meaning.
To express delight is not to buy a ticket.
To die is poignantly bitter, but the idea of having to die without having lived is unbearable.
