Quotes About Legacy

I think everything Joni Mitchell did for music was big.

Nature cares only that you reproduce and rear the kids. After you've done that, get out of the way.

There was a sense of permanence about Egypt; the past was never far from the present.

Li?im na usamljenog samrtnika što okrvavljenim noktom urezuje u stijenu znak o sebi.

Vrijeme nije samo proticanje, ve? i prisustvo. Vidljivi trag ne?ije ruke što je davno zapisala neravne redove, prkosi smrti, a rije?i i njihov smisao žive neprekidno, kao izvor koji ne presušuje, kao svjetlo koje se ne gasi.

Najbolje je zaboraviti, da umre ljudsko sje?anje na sve što je ružno, i da djeca ne pjevaju pjesme o osveti.

Ne vrijedi pri?ati o strašnom ubijanju, o ljudskom strahu, o zvjerstvima i jednih i drugih, ne bi trebalo pamtiti, ni žaliti, ni slaviti. Najbolje je zaboraviti, da umre ljudsko sje?anje na sve što je ružno, i da djeca ne pjevaju pjesme o osveti.

Strašno je proživeti vek kao anoniman i potpuno neopažen ?ovek; nikakva odjeka od tebe nema, jednak si kamenu ili ba?enoj grani kraj puta. Niko te zapamtiti ne?e. Jer ve? za tvoga života pitaju: ko je taj Ivan Mari?? Šta je u?inio?

Ljudi lako zaboravljaju ono cime se ne ponose.

nous n'allons pas ensevelir la dépouille de cet homme pour proclamer son innocence, nous ferons plus : nous sèmerons ces ossements en souvenir d'une injustice. Qu'il en germe ce que Dieu décidera.

Nikakva traga od njega nema više na svijetu. Sve što je ostalo to je u meni.

You can kill a man, but you can't kill an idea

You stayed around your children as long as you could, inhaling the ambient gold shavings of their childhood, and at the last minute you tried to see them off into life and hoped that the little piece of time you'd given them was enough to prevent them from one day feeling lonely and afraid and hopeless. You wouldn't know the outcome for a long time.

You had only one chance for a signature in life, but most people left no impression.

The past is so tenacious.

Boys can't seem to help but leave marks; they scatter them as carelessly as pebbles in a pond.

Only when those fathers were not on the premises could they be elevated and deified.

It was as though there were a box I kept under a bed and pulled out only once in a while, and in this box were crammed Mary McCarthy and Lillian Hellman and Carson McCullers and now Lee the journalist. If I opened the lid, their heads would pop out like jack-in-the-box clowns on springs, mocking me, reminding me that they existed, that women could occasionally become important writers with formidable careers, and that maybe I could have done it if I'd tried.

But the truth is, you can rarely undo things. This is what you realize after one of your parents dies.

You're going to look your girl straight in the eye and say, Baby your mom rode to the rafters. Your mom lifted three girls in her hand, grinning all the way, she says, our voices rising to a baying now, all together. Your mom build pyramids and flew high in the sky, and back in Sutton Grove, they're still talking about the wonders they saw that night, still talking about how they watched us all reach to the heavens.

All these years later, the story of their parents' end, passed down like lore, still seemed unbearably romantic to their students—less so to Marie, who, after sobbing violently next to her sister, Dara, through the funeral, insisted, I never saw them hold hands once.

Their mother, that swan neck, those elegant arms. Her dark hair gathered up tightly with her grandmother's dragonfly combs. So dignified, so refined, carrying so much inside all the time. Surrounded all day by mirrors and never letting anyone see.

I understand there's a history of madness in your family.

The Sullivans are not well known for their generosity.