Life (n.) is life despite life — in its patience and its ageing.
Life (n.) lives from contents we sometimes prefer to die with rather than live without.
Life (n.) is fled only toward life — "One minute more, Mr. Hangman!"
Life (n.) reduced to pure and naked existence, like the shades Ulysses visits in Hades, dissolves into a shadow.
Life (n.) as the "true life" of the literary writers of the great Metropoles is sexual excess and the taste for plunder.
Life (n.) in its human form is the dressing of physiological movements: it is decency.
Life (n.) gathered complete with all its hours traversed would be close to a thing — exhibited behind glass like a portrait in a museum.
Life (n.) is an existence that does not come before its essence: its essence is its worth, and here value makes being.
Life (n.) is not perseverance in being or pure becoming but "days of the Lord" — a crossing over toward the Other.
Life (n.) is never bare: it is love of life, a bond with contents dearer than my own being — thinking, eating, sleeping, reading, warming oneself in the sun.
Life (n.) is a sincerity: we breathe to breathe and walk to walk — none of it is for the sake of living; it is living.
Life (n.) merely lived is consciousness without problems — an inner world with itself at the center, like Chaplin's windowless cabin where the snowstorm is only a tilt of the floor.
Life (n.) means only life worthy of the name — exile perhaps, but no prison, no hard labour, no concentration camp; a life must have some sun.
Life (n.) as naturally lived begins, perhaps, in naivety, but left unhindered ends in loveless debauchery, plunder as a social condition, and exploitation; the human begins when this innocent but virtually murderous vitality is checked.
Life (n.) is not a diminution, a fall, or the embryo of a being accomplished from all eternity; a being that thinks only itself cannot be the touchstone of a becoming capable of renewal, Desire and society.