The world is but a show, vain and empty, a mere nothing, bearing the semblance of reality. Set not your affections upon it. [...] Verily I say, the world is like the vapor in a desert, which the thirsty dreameth to be water and striveth after it with all his might, until when he cometh unto it, he findeth it to be mere illusion.

All is vanity, you know, ALL in the long run is but vanity and vexation of spirit.

...this our world, which is so real, with all its suns and milky ways is—nothing.

You’ve seen the world, and all you’ve seen is nothing; and everything, as well, that you have said and heard is nothing. You’ve sprinted everywhere between here and the horizon; it is nothing. And all the possessions you’ve treasured up at home are nothing.

This world is nothing. An illusion. Death is the release.

All is vanity, says the Bible. All is now, says Zen, All is dust, says the desert.

The world that our senses and our consciousness habitually acquaint us with is now nothing more than the shadow of itself; and it is cold like death.

All is vanity, nothing is fair.

Enlightenment says the world is nothing
Nothing but a dream, everything's an illusion
And nothing is real.

All this world's glory seemeth vain to me,
And all their shows but shadows, saving she.

Every something is an echo of nothing.

The world is a stage and the play is badly cast.

The world is chaos. Nothingness is the yet-to-be-born god of the world.

I find the present monotonous and absurd spectacle of the world outside me so completely lacking in value or nobility that I can scarcely conceive of it as being the world.