Quotes About Legacy

Old families last not three oaks.

Time ... antiquates antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all things.

The iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity.

These dead bones have… quietly rested under the drums and tramplings of three conquests.

Times before you, when even living men were antiquities; when the living might exceed the dead, and to depart this world could not be properly said to go unto the greater number.

The man who has not anything to boast of but his illustrious ancestors is like a potato?the only good belonging to him is underground.

Books, like proverbs, receive their chief value from the stamp and esteem of the ages through which they have passed

[History] hath triumphed over time, which besides it nothing but eternity hath triumphed over.

Even such is time, that takes in trustOur youth, our joys, our all we have,And pays us but with age and dust;Who in the dark and silent grave,When we have wandered all our ways,Shuts up the story of our days.And from which earth, and grave, and dust,The Lord shall raise me up, I trust.

Time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary.

They can gas me, but I am famous. I have achieved in one day what it took Robert Kennedy all his life to do.

I suppose we are all products of our parents' joy and suffering. Their emotions are written into us, as much as the inscriptions made by their genes.

We drank coffee. We talked. She loved Charles Dickens, whom she read in Norwegian. Years after she was dead, I wrote a dissertation on Dickens, and though my study of the great man would no doubt have alarmed her, I had a funny feeling that by taking on the English novelist I was returning to my Norwegian roots.

suppose we are all the products of our parents' joy and suffering. Their emotions are written into us, as much as the inscriptions made by their genes.

The black-and-white figures of the photographs have had to stand in place of my memory and yet I have always felt that their unmarked graves became a part of me. What was unwritten then is inscribed into what I call myself.

and although the young writer never met his literary mentor, the spiritual connection between the two writers would never be dissolved.

Gus knew. Gus knows. I will not tell you our love story, because—like all real love stories—it will die with us, as it should. I'd hoped that he'd be eulogizing me.

The only thing that matters, at the end of a stay on earth, is how well did we love, what was the quality of our love?

What love we've given, we'll have forever.

Love and the hope of it are not things one can learn; they are a part of life's heritage.

Literary history is the great morgue where all seek the dead ones whom they love, or to whom they are related.

This is what we know, when you tell us of your fondest hopes and dreams for us: that your greatest wish is that one day we will cease to be, and strangers you can love will move in behind our faces.

It's very difficult to resort to hating [Pablo Escobar] when all he gave you his entire life was love and all the best he ever had.

The only thing that will really matter at the end of your life is: Did you love completely?