Quotes About Legacy

I'm not sure I believe in the whole 'ghost-afterlife' thing, but I think places are marked by people who have been there.

My father was an entertainer. This is, of course, one of the most marked and enduring manifestations.

People know the Marley family for music.

Nobody - and I don't care if I marry somebody tomorrow - nobody could take Keith Whitley's place. Nobody.

College was an experience I'll always cherish. Now I fund a scholarship at my alma mater in my late father's name—he'd laugh to know that it's a science scholarship, when I can barely do math! I also fund a nursing scholarship at the Oglala Lakota College in Kyle, South Dakota, in the name of my mother, who was a nurse.

way for new, winter taking away the remnants of the old to clear room for the young growth. Life, in other words, in all its fierce beauty and stark routine. All things went to the soil eventually. It was the way of life.

Do not all the achievements of a poet's predecessors and contemporaries rightfully belong to him? Why should he shrink from picking flowers where he finds them? Only by making the riches of the others our own do we bring anything great into being.

I shall die and then you'll all be sorry.

I daresay she is as proud of you as I am. We are two old ladies who both had a hand in forming you. You are, one might say, our joint creation. Don't you think I did any of me myself, then? Howl asked. Put in just a few touches of my own? A few, and those not altogether to my liking, Mrs Pentstemmon replied.

I don't want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the lenght of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well.

For if I won't leap up and ride, who will? And, if no one will ride, when at last the spangly caravan is over, silence rules, and we are left staring across an empty street into the blank of each other's eyes, who will tell about the drums and the cartwheels of light? Who will say what marvel it was swept by?

What sort of stewards of the future planet will today's digital children be?

I don't want to get to the end of my life and find that I just lived the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well.

Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic. As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head.

As one tends to the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. I clean them, do minor repairs, keep them in good order. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so, for it must be very lonely being dead.

For someone now dead once thought these words significant enough to write them down.

Joe the storyteller was remembered at the Swan for a long, long time. And though eventually there came a day when the man himself was forgotten, his stories lived on.

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist.

No matter how banal the contents, there is always something that touches me. For someone now dead once thought these words significant enough to write them down.

Un nacimiento no es, en realidad, una introducción. Nuestra vida, cuando empieza, no es realmente nuestra, sino la continuación de la historia de otro.

Seventeen years being neither a very short nor a very long time, Phillip was remembered and misremembered in equal measure.

Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.

Everybody has a story. It's like families. You might not know who they are, might have lost them, but they exist all the same. You might drift apart or you might turn your back on them, but you can't say you haven't got them. Same goes for stories.

You may not want to be my son, but I cannot help but be your father.