Quotes About Legacy

I began going through dozens of boxes stored away in her apartment and her art studio. They were filled with journals, and documents, and letters. She saved everything. Handwritten notes from her aunt Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney and schoolbooks my grandfather Reginald Vanderbilt doodled in as a child. I found old wills and financial records, and as I read the contents of these files stained by time and mold, I began to hear the voices of those people I never knew.

It's the way it should be- no distance between the living and the dead. Their stories are remembered, their spirits embraced.

There's no better cure for the fear of taking after one's father, than not to know who he is.

Walking to the net, I'm certain that I've lost to the better man, the Everest of the next generation. I pity the young players who will have to contend with him. I feel for the man who is fated to play Agassi to his Sampras. Though I don't mention Pete by name, I have him uppermost in my mind when I tell reporters: It's real simple. Most people have weaknesses. Federer has none.

Pop, I said, isn't this shit vaulable? Not to me, son.

For there is so much she needs to pass on to this child, that our lives are brief, even long ones like hers, and the one thing we should do is take care of each other. That's all. But honey, it's so hard. Why, child, is it so hard? A voice through the trees.

I don't argue with my enemies; I explain to their children.

On dit souvent que la mort est 'ne libiration. Pour les morts, naturellement, passque en fait pour ceux qui restent, c'est presque toujours un grandissime tracassin.

quante, sta 'sti piviri miserabili, erano pirsone capaci di arricchiri il munno con la loro arti? quanti tra i tanti cataferi che oramà erano nell'invisibili cimitero marino sarebbiro stati capaci di scriviri 'na poesia le cui parole avrebbiro consolato, ralligrato, inchiuto il cori di chi stava a liggirla?»

Il catafero di Japichinu sarebbe andato a finire nello sbalanco di qualche chiarchiàro... No, il nonno sapeva quanto fosse religioso il nipoteddru. L'avrebbe fatto seppellire anonimamente in terra consacrata. Dintra il tabbuto di un altro.

Tell the story of your village. If you tell it well, you will have told the story of the world.

What will our children be like ? A lot depends on us. But it's up to them as well. What must be alive in them is a striving for freedom. That depends on us. People who have been born into slavery find it hard to lose the habit.

It is now thirteen years since I ceased to accumulate wealth and began to distribute it. I could never have succeeded in either had I stopped with having enough to retire upon, but nothing to retire to.

It happens all too often - people regret that their language and culture are being lost but at the same time decide not to saddle their own children with the chore of preserving them.

We write code, which communicates our intentions to a machine and documents our thinking for future generations of developers.

The actual legacy of Desert Storm was to plunge the United States more deeply into a sea of difficulties for which military power provided no antidote. Yet in post–Cold War Washington, where global leadership and global power projection had become all but interchangeable terms, senior military officers like Sullivan were less interested in assessing what those difficulties might portend than in claiming a suitably large part of the action.

as the Age of Bush gave way to the Era of Obama, little of substance changed. That was the greatest irony of all.

American Slavery, American Freedom

The negroes been freed.' 'Well, I ain't.

To live in the hearts of those we leave behind is not to die. Thomas Campbell 1777-1844 Inscription on the gates of Kensington Palace in the days of mourning before the funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales

each of us describes our existence by means of objects which are indifferent to us, which survive us, and which are then thrown back into the common stock from which they are soon gathered again and ascribed other roles in other circumstances.

The garden was planted four hundred years ago, when the surrounding area was poplar. The woman makes a sweeping gesture, and he nods in appreciation. And now, Less says, it's unpoplar.

It's true things can go on till you die. And people use the same old table, even though it's falling apart and it's been repaired and repaired, just because it was their grandmother's. That's how towns become ghost towns. It's how houses become junk stores. And I think it's how people get old.

How do we forgive ourselves? Our parents watch us so carefully when we're children, desperate not to miss a first scream, a first step, a first word, never taking their eyes off us. Yet we do not watch them. They near the end in solitude—even those who live beside us die in solitude—and rarely do we catch their own milestones: the last scream before the morphine settles in, last step before they cannot walk, last word before the throat seals.