Transcendence: that which transcends experience.
The universe can best be pictured as consisting of pure thought, the thought of what for want of a better word we must describe as a mathematical thinker.
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
Who can believe that there is no soul behind those luminous eyes!
The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought and sold and bartered away.
I will burn, but this is a mere event. We shall continue our discussion in eternity.
The soul is something which contains the body. The body doesn't contain the soul. The soul, if we put it into modern language, is the entire complex of relationships in whose context this organism exists.
In death, as in sleep, I am all things.
I believe in the invisible. I do not believe in the definitive reality of things around us. For me, reality is the intuition and the imagination and the quiet voice inside my head that says: isn't that extraordinary? The things in our lives are the shadows of reality, just as we ourselves are shadows.
There's a part of me that thinks perhaps we go on existing in a place even after we've left it.
The soul is an illusion.
At the end of the day we're all spirits having a physical experience.
And what does it mean -- dying? Perhaps man has a hundred senses, and only the five we know are lost at death, while the other ninety-five remain alive.
You are life, inventing form. No more can you die on sword or years than you can die on doorways through which you walk, one room into another. Every room gives its word for you to speak, every passage its song for you to sing.
There exists no God. What exists is godliness, and that godliness surrounds you. We are all in the same ocean.
PRE-EXISTENCE, n. An unnoted factor in creation.
Perhaps our eyes are merely a blank film which is taken from us after our deaths to be developed elsewhere and screened as our life story in some infernal cinema or dispatched as microfilm into the sidereal void.
Death is an antidote for this life, and it makes another more stable form of life which is insoluble in everything.
Nothing exists but him.
There is an objective reality in which my body and mind are one. But I am not here and never have been.
I am not convinced that there is such a thing as a soul.
I believe in previous lives and the Muse—and that books and music exist before they are written and that they are propelled into material being by their own imperative to be born, via the offices of those willing servants of discipline, imagination and inspiration whom we call artists.
What stuff is the man made of who is not coexistent in our thought with the purest and sublimest truth?
Upon the solution of this problem, or upon sufficient proof of the impossibility of synthetical knowledge a priori, depends the existence or downfall of metaphysics.
My body is the fruit of spirits' play.
