Quotes About Legacy

The 'man' from 'Sarman' relates to heredity, or a particular family. It also refers to the receptacle of an heirloom. The 'Sar' of 'Sarman' is defined as 'head.' In this sense, the 'head' is meant both literally as a part of the body, and in the meaning of elder one or master. Therefore, we may tentatively conclude that 'Sarman' means 'The Sovereign Receptacle of the Sacred.' Or, an alternative reading would be 'Those Whose Heads are Priceless.

Every man serves a useful purpose: A miser, for example, makes a wonderful ancestor.

Driving home later that night, Dees lamented that young black people born after the end of the civil rights era knew almost nothing about those who had died so they could live freer lives. And those of the white race knew even less about one of the most important social

Driving home later that night, Dees lamented that young black people born after the end of the civil rights era knew almost nothing about those who had died so they could live freer lives. And those of the white race knew even less about one of the most important social and political movements in American history.

There was a strange kind of magick bias, which good or bad names, as he called them, irresistibly impressed upon our characters and conduct…. How many Caesars and Pompeys, he would say, by mere inspiration of the names, have been rendered worthy of them?

I wish either my father or my mother, or indeed both of them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it, had minded what they were about when they begot me.

Voilà peut-être ce qu'il faudrait accepter: on ne fait que passer. Et quand bien même l'amour, le combat, la souffrance à en devenir fou... De tout ça un jour il ne reste rien

We may not be able to stop and undo the hard old wrongs of the great world outside, but through you and me no evil shall come either in the unknown where you are going, or in this imperfect and haunted dimension of awareness through which I move.

Ninety percent of everything we know has been passed along through story.

In London in the 1980s some migrants from former British colonies in the Caribbean responded to racist attacks with a powerful slogan: "We are here because you were there.

I want to thank all the women who have worn my clothes, the famous and the unknown, who have been so faithful to me and given me so much joy.

I participated in the transformation of my era. I did it with clothes, which is surely less important than music, architecture, painting ... but whatever it's worth I did it.

She had been given a wonderful gift: life. Sometimes it was cruelly taken away too soon, but it's what you did with it that counted, not how long it lasted.

But the dead, they have ghosts. Ghosts are very useful for haunting. Never forget the dead, Tula. They have their function. They sometimes speak at the most useful or inopportune times.

One day soon, this body will be old; and not too long afterward, it will turn into dust. This thought frightened her, made her think of how insignificant she was, made her realize that she alone gave her life significance.

I think I'll always be famous. I just hope I don't become infamous.

La mayoría de los muertos callan. Ya no dicen nada. Literalmente ya lo han dicho todo. Pero no sucede así con los poetas. Los poetas siguen hablando

Als wij geen namen zouden hebben, zou alles veel duidelijker zijn. Gewoon wat vluchtige materie met een beetje bewustzijn, verschijningen die komen en tamelijk snel weer verdwijnen. Door die namen denken we dat we heel wat zijn, we denken misschien zelfs dat ze ons beschermen, maar wie weet nog de namen van alle miljarden die verdwenen zijn?

That long-ago day, sitting in this very spot on the dock, she had already begun to feel it: how hard it would be to inherit their parents' dreams. How suffocating to be so loved.

To a parent, your child wasn't just a person: your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for all existed at once.

Somewhere out there are people who still know her poems, who've hidden scraps of them away in the folds of their minds before setting match to the papers of their hands. He will find them. He will ask them what they remember. He will piece together their recollections, fragmentary and incomplete though they may be, mapping the holes of one against the solid patches of another. And in this way, piece by piece, he will set her back down on paper again.

Today it strikes Bird as unbearably sad, to pass by and leave no trace of your existence. To

It struck her then, as if someone had said it aloud: her mother was dead, and the only thing worth remembering about her, in the end, was that she had cooked. Marilyn

There is no snow, yet, to hold footprints, and in a moment, as his father disappears from sight, it is as if he never passed that way at all. Today it strikes Bird as unbearably sad, to pass by and leave no trace of your existence. To have no one remember you'd been there.