Quotes About Legacy

The colors of living things begin to fade with the last breath, and the soft, springy skin and supple muscle rot within weeks. But the bones sometimes remain, faithful echoes of the shape, to bear some last faint witness to the glory of what was.

When a man dies, it's only him," he said. "And one is much like another. Aye, a family needs a man, to feed them, protect them. But any decent man can do it. A woman Ã¢â'¬Â¦Ã¢â'¬Â His lips moved against my fingertips, a faint smile. "A woman takes life with her when she goes. A woman is Ã¢â'¬Â¦ infinite possibility." "Idiot," I said, very softly. "If you think one man is just like any other.

You aren't doing it for the sake of ideals, are you? Not for the sake of...liberty. Freedom, self determination, all that.' He shook his head. 'No,' he said softly. 'Why, then? I asked, more gently. 'For you,' he said without hesitation. '...For my family. For the future. And if that is not an ideal, I've never heard of one.

I am a warrior, that my son may be a merchant—and his son may be a poet.

Your mother said that Fraser sent her back to me, knowing that I would protect her--and you. ... And like him, perhaps I send you back, knowing---as he knew of me--that he will protect you with his life. I love you forever, Brianna. I know whose child you truly are. With all my love, Dad.

We look in the mirror and see the shades of other faces looking back through the years; we see the shape of memory, standing solid in an empty doorway. By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves.

By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves.

My grandsire,' Jamie observed evenly, 'has by all reports got a character that would enable him to hide conveniently behind a spiral staircase.

Claire," he said quietly. "Tomorrow I will die. This child Ã¢â'¬Â¦ is all that will be left of me—ever. I ask ye, Claire—I beg you—see it safe." I stood still, vision blurring, and in that moment, I heard my heart break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower's stem.

Hodie mihi cras tibi. Sic transit gloria mundi.

When a man dies, it's only him," he said. "And one is much like another. Aye, a family needs a man, to feed them, protect them. But any decent man can do it. A woman Ã¢â'¬Â¦Ã¢â'¬Â His lips moved against my fingertips, a faint smile. "A woman takes life with her when she goes. A woman is Ã¢â'¬Â¦ infinite possibility.

I wondered what sort of man - or woman, perhaps? - had lain here, leaving no more than an echo of their bones, so much more fragile than the enduring rocks that sheltered them.

But a man is not forgotten, as long as there are two people left under the sky. One, to tell the story; the other, to hear it. So.

If I die," he whispered in the dark, "dinna follow me. The bairns will need ye. Stay for them. I can wait.

Once a man has lived under arms, I suspect he is marked for life.In fact I have heard it remarked that old soldiers never die; they just fade away.

Damn Frank!" he said ferociously. "Damn all Randalls! Damn Jack Randall, and damn Mary Hawkins Randall, and damn Alex Randall—er, God rest his soul, I mean," he amended hastily, crossing himself.

More than most men, he valued his name-I only hoped that given time, it would once more have value.

Your son is a drunkard," she informed him. Then she caught a whiff of Roger's breath. "Following in his father's footsteps, I see," she added coldly.

And then later, at the funeral, members of the family, followed by the tenants and then the servants, had come one by one to add a stone each to the weight of remembrance.

We look in the mirror and see the shades of other faces looking back through the years; we see the shape of memory, standing solid in an empty doorway. By blood and by choice, we make our ghosts; we haunt ourselves. Each ghost comes unbidden from the misty grounds of dream and silence.

Papa says that wars take three generations to fade from the ground where they're fought. And from what I've seen, Friends have quite long memories, as well." "He might just have a point.

thought that was perhaps how some ghosts were made; where a will and a purpose had survived, heedless of the frail flesh that fell by the wayside, unable to sustain life long enough.

Father to son. And with that thought, all the disconnected, fragmentary, scattered fancies in his brain dropped suddenly into a single, vivid image: Jamie Fraser, seen from the back, looking over the horses in the paddock at Helwater. And beside him, standing on a rail and clinging to a higher one, William, Earl of Ellesmere. The alert cock of their heads, the set of their shoulders, the wide stance—just the same.

Wakefield's not my own name, see; the Reverend gave it me when he adopted me. He was my mother's uncle—when my parents were killed in the War, he took me to live with him. But my own name is MacKenzie.