Quotes About Legacy

What we leave behind in this life is the memory of who we were and what we did. An imprint, no more. I have learned much. I have become wise. But have I made a difference? I cannot tell.

how his grandfather used to stroke his brow

If we do not remember those who have gone before us, we are destined to repeat the same mistakes. We walk blind through

That which was and is no more is hidden treasure.

All we know, Midnight. The best of all we know. For Chestry Valley and its master we loved. For Nana. For Sugarloaf and Brimstone Farm. For Pop and Mom and Tom. For the foals to come. For yesterday and for all tomorrows, we dance the best we know. For good-by.

Snow fell and the last traces of men were covered with a thick, white blanket. The people of Hunor and Magyar had left the headlands of wild Altain-Ula forever. The snowcapped peaks had looked at their coming and going with indifference; in twelve moons they had forgotten them. To the everlasting mountains they meant no more than the passing of dry leaves blown by the wind.

You die twice. Once when your heart stops beating and again when your name is spoken for the last time.

Take down Arty and Chick and Papa and the twins, and all that's left of the Jar Kin, and, by then, Lily and me. Open our metal jars and pour all the Binewski dust together into that big battered loving cup that first held only Grandpa B. Bolt us to the hood of your traveling machine and take us on the road again.

The old man is spread out on the worm buffet and

Now it was time for him to move out. She wasn't there, so he must go for both of them. It was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength.

daredevil nature as a young man. When I read what William Roth had written, I sighed. So that was where my own two boys had gotten the trait that was turning their mother's hair gray.

They gave Jesse all of Leslie's books and her paint set with three pads of real watercolor paper.

He put down his roll and reached over and took her gnarled hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. I'm trying to tell the child something only you and I can understand. How good it is to be old. I watched her face go from being startled by his gesture to being pleased that he had somehow joined her side against me. Then she seemed to remember. She drew back her hand. We'll die, she said. Yes, he said. But we'll be ready. The young ones never are.

was appalled that I was heading across the world for four years, asked me: "How could you do this to your mother?" "Well," I answered, "she did it to her mother." But when my parents went to China it was different.

The name of the exhibit that my body is in, here with good ol' Sergeant Stubby, is The Price of Freedom. When they point from the other side of the glass, Freedom isn't free, I hear the patriots say. Blah, blah, blah. They're right, but not for the reasons they think they are. The Great War cost me a lot, and although it's not a competition, on this, the eve of my centenary, I can honestly conclude that it cost Whit more.

The way a crane creates, then erases itself, from the skyline. He'd been referring to how I, as a copywriter, created R.H. Macy's, but the same metaphor might easily have been applied to how I, as a mother, was creating my son.

Death, I suspect, will likely be unsatisfying because I will no longer be present to feel the achievement thereof.

We shall have no leaders left before long!" the pastor cried bitterly. "We are not abandoned," the doctor told him quietly. "Neither is one man indispensable, however much we may mourn him personally. Each of us does as much as he can and when he disappears someone else finds the courage to take his place.

Death bears with it a stain that seeps into the hollow and fills the mind.

A hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove . . . . but the world maybe different because I was important in the life of a child.

An Arundel Tomb"

It is true that I had wanted to die , but that is peculiarly different from regretting having been born. Overwhelmingly, I was enormously glad to have been born, grateful for life, and I couldn't imagine not wanting to pass on life to someone else.

I was one of many who owed their lives to the black circles and squares in Schou's family tree.

Schubert's posthumous Piano Sonata in B-flat, D. 960. Its