Quotes About Legacy

Why's your name Yolk?' 'Er... don't know. Was my father's name... I guess.' 'Think you're the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk?

Ljudi ponekad moraju raditi i nešto što im se ne svi?a ako žele ostati zapam?eni. Kroz muke, ne kroz lagodnost, sti?u se slava i ?ast. Kroz konflikte, ne kroz mir, sti?u se bogatstvo i mo?.

Do you think this is what Ankran would have wanted?' he muttered. 'To be dead?' said Jaud. 'I doubt it.

The world is bound to look a darker place as you slide into the grave.

You turn to shit, alright. But maybe you can leave something good behind you.' She barked empty laughter at him. 'What do we leave behind but things not done, not said, not finished? Empty clothes, empty rooms, empty spaces in the ones who knew us? Mistakes never made right and hopes rotted down to nothing?

The dead save me from the fucking young.' 'No getting away from 'em, sadly,' muttered Clover. 'The older you get, the more of 'em there are.

On the right side of history, maybe. Vick snorted. The thing about history is you don't know what the right side is till long afterwards, and by then it hardly matters. That's the sort o' thing you hear from folk who know they're on the wrong side.

He built the Empire, yet he was also the principal in its destruction. A great man, in so many ways, but great men have great faults... One should learn the lessons of history. The mistakes of the past need only be made once... Unless there are no other choices.

I don't intend to rush at the grave, believe me." "Few do. The grave swallows us all regardless.

Great folk are great 'cause they plant new footsteps. Not 'cause they blunder through the same mistakes some other bastards made.

north by north, that's what the forest told me. There's a place up in the mountains, a place well loved by the moon. A strong valley, and watched over by the dead of my family, and the dead of my people, and the dead of the mountains, all the way back until when the world was made.

You can be as great a man as you please while you're alive. Makes not a straw of difference once you go back to the mud. And

You want to paint this?' 'Future generations might never believe it happened.' She blew some yellow hair out of her face with a smoky breath and went back to sketching, charcoal hissing on paper. 'Then it might happen again.

They don't see that you can't have a future without a past.

But what does it matter? It is not how you die, but how you lived, that counts.

When the fighting is over you dig, if you're still alive. You dig graves for your dead comrades, A last mark of respect, however little you might have had for them. You dig as deep as you can bothered, you dump then in, you cover them up, they rot away and are forgotten. That's the way it's always been.

The thing about history is you don't know what the right side is till long afterwards, and by then it hardly matters.

We are all dead men, brother, in due course. It is how we get there that counts.

The old king and his old cunts glowered at the young heir and his young cunts, naught praiseworthy on either side but all jealous of what the others had even so. Matching groups, in many ways; Clover could almost see each warrior squaring up to his counterpart. The mean one, the handsome one, the one who hardly spoke, the one who spoke too much.

Rulf laid a single arrow beside the body, and Koll reckoned he was struggling to keep back tears. 'From nothing, to nothing,' he croaked out. Father Yarvi laid his withered hand on the old helmsman's arm. 'But what a journey in between.

The Great Leveller," Dogman whispered to himself, since he was in a thoughtful frame of mind. That's what the hillmen call him. Death, that is. He levels all differences. Named Men and nobodies, south or north. He catches everyone in the end, and he treats each man the same.

The devastating punch we took on September 11th still reverberates throughout American society.

I was kind of secretly hoping one of my kids would go out and make a million bucks. So when they put me in a home, at least I'll have a window with a view.

Pesach without children is like a cantor without a song, like an actor without any lines, or a storyteller without an audience.