Every life is its own excuse for being.
There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book.
I don't exist when you don't see me.
The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.
Existence really is an imperfect tense that never becomes a present.
We spend our lives talking about this mystery. Our life.
One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one's death, one dies one's life.
It is living and ceasing to live that are imaginary solutions. Existence is elsewhere.
There's a time when you have to explain to your children why they're born, and it's a marvelous thing if you know the reason by then.
In order to exist just once in the world, it is necessary never again to exist.
Existence is no more than the precarious attainment of relevance in an intensely mobile flux of past, present, and future.
There is no means of proving it is preferable to be than not to be.