Quotes About Legacy

Are you the adult that you want your child to grow up to be?

Quoting Viola Davis (who is sharing rules she lives by): '4. I will not be a mystery to my daughter. She will know me and I will share my stories with her—the stories of failure, shame, and accomplishment. She will know she's not alone in that wilderness.

Are you the adult that you want your child to grow up to be?" As

At the end of the day, at the end of the week, at the end of my life, I want to say I contributed more than I criticized. It's that simple.

I want to live in a world with braver, bolder leaders, and I want to be able to pass that kind of world on to my children.

Wellington, Jack had never cared about pleasing anyone but himself. Lord Geoffrey, his spendthrift, gamester father and Lord Foxhaven's second son, had died when Jack was but eight. Two years later, his mother married Sir Findlay Branch, a wealthy, stuffy baronet whose apparent mission in life was to eradicate Lord Geoffrey's

Fuil an thiarna, foaru. Finné anois tabhair ar fad saol rioga. Tastail ionachta go deo.

The dress only means something if you want it to. What is important are the people behind it. When it comes to these things that are handed down from generation to generation, each woman leaves her own mark on it, so that it tells ours story, stitch by stitch.

These things we hold on to, they are more than just things. They prove our history, who we are, where we came from.

DeWarenne men love forever

It was said that his decision to have his papers burnt was a defence against biographers. He had read a life of one of the archbishops of Dublin, Dr William Walsh, and thought it a travesty of the man he had known. No one would do that to him; no one would analyse the mind and heart of Daniel Mannix. It would be bad enough if they got it wrong. And for him, it might have been almost as bad if they got it right.

All gifts are riddles, all lives/are in the middle of mother-lives.

Me exploding at my mother who explodes at me because the explosion of some dark star all the way back struck hard at mother's mother's mother.

I cling to this because to hope for this earth to go on after we're gone is the only kind of love left– the last good human piece of us.

The strange and scattered pieces of ourselves we leave behind,

Everyone I know who is successful has issues with their father, regardless of whether it was sports or business or entertainment.

I'm the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be.

Beneath this tree lies the body of John Oakhurst, who struck a streak of bad luck on the 23rd of November, 1850, and handed in his checks on the 7th of December, 1850.

He had give this country his all, and in this land that used his bones for kindling, in this land that never once in the thirty years he lived and worked, never once said thank you, this young woman who could be his granddaughter had said the words with such honest gratitude, he was struck by how deeply these words touched him.

I love inscriptions on flyleaves and notes in margins, I like the comradely sense of turning pages someone else turned, and reading passages someone long gone has called my attention to.

It looks too new and pristine ever to have been read by anyone else, but it has been: it keeps falling open at the most delightful places as the ghost of its former owner points me to things I've never read before.

I'll have mine [The Book-Lovers' Anthology] till the day I die - and die happy in the knowledge that I'm leaving it behind for someone else to love. I shall sprinkle pale pencil marks through it pointing out the best passages to some book-lover yet unborn.

de opeenvolging der generaties: een reeks die zich in het duister van de tijd verliest, ouders, kinderen, kleinkinderen, tot in het oneindige bezig elkaar de last door te geven die ieder van de voorgangers heeft ontvangen, vermeerderd met eigen onlust, soms door individuele werkzaamheid in gewicht verminderd. Wij kunnen onze kinderen geen grotere dienst bewijzen dan door onze bagage op vodden en oud roest te sorteren'.

All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. American writing comes from that. There was nothing before. There has been nothing as good since.