Quotes About Legacy

of the debacle over Fox Corner when Sylvie died

Everyone remembered Lord Lucan's name, but hardly anyone remembered Sandra Rivett, the nanny he clubbed to death. The wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Gabrielle Mason and her children, also mostly forgotten by the collective memory. Who could name one of the Yorkshire Ripper's victims? Or the Wests'? The forgotten dead. Victims faded, murderers lived on in the memory, only the police kept the eternal flame alight, passing it on as the years went by.

Her grandfather was dying of old age, Bertie thought. Worn out. Not cancer or a heart attack or an accident or a catastrophe. Old age seemed like a hard way to go.

Much good may honour do them when they're dead

O passado é aquilo que transportamos connosco

And when all else is gone, Art remains.

Life was for absorbing, not recording. And in the end, it was all just paper that someone would have to dispose of after you were gone. Perhaps, after all, one's purpose in this world was to be forgotten, not remembered

Perhaps his son was right. Perhaps the past was no longer the context for the present. Perhaps none of it mattered anymore. Was this how the world would end—not with a bang but a So?

You're trying to shore up a civilization that's in its death throes," Hugh said, as casually as if he were remarking on the weather. "There's really no point.

Life was for absorbing, not recording. And in the end, it was all just paper that someone would have to dispose of after you were gone.

They were lucky. They'd been given history.

Their names written on water. Or scorched into the earth. Or atomized into the air. Legion.

We must remember these people when we are safely in the future.

Why did you have children?' Bertie asked, later in their lives. 'Was it just the biological imperative to breed?' 'That's why everyone has children,' Viola said. 'They just dress it up as something more sentimental.') Viola

A whole life could be contained in a dinner-service pattern

Fairy tales represent hundreds of years of stories based on thousands of years of stories told by hundreds, thousands, perhaps even millions of tellers.

You can't know a father. They're all magicians. Got two million years of strings and mirrors in their pockets.

Tradition, Honor, Excellence.

Book the First A MOUSE IS BORN Book the Second CHIAROSCURO Book the Third GOR! THE TALE OF MIGGERY SOW Book the Fourth RECALLED TO THE LIGHT Coda

We'll smell of fish forever," I said. "That would be nice.

That was why I kept stealing books out of the parlor and returning them. For the only books I ever took were my father's journals. Didn't I have some right to them, being that they, and I, were all that remained of him?

Every action leaves its wake. Even the slightest of people makes a whisper within the world, if only you pause to listen for a soft breath on your cheek.

But you will die in any case, Ilyakoria. What good is everlasting fame to a man if he dies unloved?

Die Toten hinterlassen ihre Schatten, einen Nachhall des Raumes, den sie einst bewohnten. Sie suchen uns heim, werden nie schwächer oder älter als wir. Wir betrauern nicht nur den Verlust ihrer Zukunft, sondern auch den der unseren.