Existence (n.) has nothing, absolutely no reason, behind the eating and drinking we do to preserve it.
Existence (n.) gives every existing thing a birth without reason, a prolonging out of weakness, and a death by chance.
Existence (n.) is what I am afraid of — eyes slowly devouring a face would be too much, but no more so than the first two.
Existence (n.) is a sin one can wash oneself of — not completely, but as much as any man can — by making something that is.
Existence (n.) liberated and detached floods over me: it's nothing, I am the Thing, I exist, and it's sweet, so sweet, so slow.
Existence (n.) has no half-way house: if you exist you must exist all the way, as far as mouldiness, bloatedness, obscenity.
Existence (n.) is not a stable substance resting in itself but a perpetual disequilibrium, a wrenching away from itself with all its body.
Existence (n.) is not an abstract quality but as a vast and overwhelming presence. It is 'the very paste of things'.
Existence (n.) is not an empty form added to things without changing their nature; it is the very paste of things — the root is kneaded into it.
Existence (n.) cannot be forgotten: even if I crouch silently in a corner, I shall be there, my weight on the floor. I am.
Existence (n.) is soft, rolls and tosses; it is a fallen chute — will not fall, will fall; existence is an imperfection.
Existence (n.) does not let itself be thought from a distance: it must invade you suddenly, weigh on your heart like a great motionless beast — or there is nothing at all.
Existence (n.) is to always assume the being of human reality... that is, to be responsible for it instead of receiving it from outside, as a pebble does.
Existence (n.) is the work of our inner life: resistances overcome and perpetually reborn, despairs surmounted, provisional failures and precarious victories.