Julian Barnes Quotes

"Tell me, Tool, what dominates your thoughts?" The Imass shrugged before replying. "I think of futility, Adjunct." "Do all Imass think about futility?" "No. Few think at all." "Why is that?" The Imass leaned his head to one side and regarded her. "Because, Adjunct, it is futile."

Everything in the world is gloriously meaningless.

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing; but instead of nonchalantly promenading our own corruption, we exude our sweat and grow winded upon the fetid air.

Life may be not only meaningless but absurd.

Music is essentially useless, as is life.

Famously, there's not really anywhere to go after nihilism. It's not progressing toward anything, it's a statement of outrage, however brilliant.

When people conclude that all is futile, then the absurd becomes the norm.

Life is tragic and absurd, and none of it has any purpose at all.

My search not only failed, but I convinced myself that all those who had searched like myself had failed also, and come like me to the despairing conviction that the only absolute knowledge man can possess is this—that life is without a meaning.

The meaningless absurdity of life is the only incontestable knowledge accessible to man.

I searched all areas of knowledge, and not only did I fail to find anything, but I was convinced that all those who had explored as I did had also come up with nothing. Not only had they found nothing, but they had clearly acknowledged the same thing that had brought me to despair: the only absolute knowledge attainable by man is that life is meaningless.

The great question of philosophy remains: If life is meaningless, what can be done about alphabet soup?

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?

Futility has become a great subject, full of opportunities.

Nothing makes sense, why should I?

The point is there ain't no point.

Nothing matters. Nothing matters.

I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a meaningless world.

Whoever sincerely believes that elevated and distant goals are as little use to man as a cow, that "all of our problems" come fromsuch goals, is left to eat, drink, sleep, or, when he gets sick of that, to run up to a chest and smash his forehead on its corner.

We're all making castles in the sand, wonderful tapestries, an exquisite corpse. But is it meaningful? No. It's dogs barking. It doesn't mean anything beyond our yelping, at the pain of being alive.

Since all life is futility, then the decision to exist must be the most irrational of all.

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face.

By all evidence we are in the world to do nothing.

Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.

Life has become the ideology of its own absence.