William Allingham Quotes

I have a sort of empty feeling; nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.

Not to be onto something is to be in despair.

Consciousness is an end in itself. We torture ourselves getting somewhere, and when we get there it is nowhere, for there is nowhere to get to.

When we attempt to find meaning in the pursuit of pleasure, the commitment to a job, or through plumbing intellectual depths, we all eventually find in each of these pursuits a dead end.

Life is an empty dream.

I was jumping rope. Everything was fine. And then suddenly everything seemed so futile.

Ecclesiastes said that "all is vanity," Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very short may know it.

My chronic feelings of emptiness and boredom came from the fact that I was living a life based on my incapacities, which were numerous.

But who are we, where do we come from When all those years Nothing but idle talk is left And we are nowhere in the world?" = MEETING =

Oh, the cares of men! how much emptiness there is in human concerns!

Everything means nothing to me

Gradually the feeling wears off, and I feel swamped again by the inexplicable pettiness of being alive.

A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

Robin turned and looked straight into her. "What's life for?" "I don't know." "I don't either. But I don't think it's about winning.

But there is no substance under the things I have gathered together about me. I am hollow, and my structure of pleasures and ambitions has no foundation. I am objectified in them. But they are all destined by their very contingency to be destroyed. And when they are gone there will be nothing left of me but my own nakedness and emptiness and hollowness, to tell me that I am a mistake.

Every man is occasionally visited by the suspicion that the planet on which he is riding is not really going anywhere; that the Force which controls its measured eccentricities hasn't got anything special in mind. If he broods on this somber theme long enough he gets the doleful idea that the laughing children on a merry-go-round or the thin, fine hands of a lady's watch are revolving more purposely than he is.

Why should I live? Why should I do anything? Is there in life any purpose which the inevitable death that awaits me does not undo and destroy?

Woe to him who saw no more sense in his life, no aim, no purpose, and therefore no point in carrying on.

Things are only mannequins and even the great world-historical events are only costumes beneath which they exchange glances with nothingness.

Nothing makes sense, why should I?

I hope we're not just human garbage drifting toward a big sewer. But I think so.

Futility is the defining characteristic of life.

Everything in the world is gloriously meaningless.

When you can no longer feel the life that you are, you are likely to try to fill up your life with things.