Quotes About Life

the devil has no more cunning way of securing a long lease of life for any evil than getting Christian people and Christian Churches to give it their sanction.

When the bonds which knit society to God are relaxed, selfishness soon becomes furious, and forcibly seizes what it lusts after, regardless of others' rights. Sin saps the very foundations of social life, and makes men into tigers, more destructive to each other than wild beasts. All our grand modern schemes for the reformation of society will fail unless they begin with the reformation of the individual. To walk with God is the true way to make men gentle and pitying.

Here lies … /Who did nothing/Went nowhere/Was loved by nobody.

Rough sleepers have a life expectancy of forty-two years. They are thirty-five times more likely to commit suicide than the rest of the population. In

It was time to take the pumpkin out of the pot and eat it. In the final analysis, that was what solved these big problems of life. You could think and think and get nowhere, but you still had to eat your pumpkin. That brought you down to earth. That gave you a reason for going on. Pumpkin.

A life without stories would be no life at all. And stories bound us, did they not, one to another, the living to the dead, people to animals, people to the land?

So the small things came into their own: small acts of helping others, if one could; small ways of making one's own life better: acts of love, acts of tea, acts of laughter. Clever people might laugh at such simplicity, but, she asked herself, what was their own solution?

Mma Ramotswe sighed. 'We are all tempted, Mma. We are all tempted when it comes to cake.' That is true,' said Mma Potokwane sadly. 'There are many temptations in this life, but cake is probably one of the biggest of them.

There are many women whose lives would be immeasurably improved by widowhood, but one should not always point that out.

We don't forget.... Our heads may be small, but they are as full of memories as the sky may sometimes be full of swarming bees, thousands and thousands of memories, of smells, of places, of little things that happened to us and which came back, unexpectedly, to remind us who we are.

Lord and Master of my life, Take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power, and idle talk.* But give rather the spirit of chastity, humility, patience, and love to Thy servant.* Yea, O Lord and King, Grant me to see my own transgressions, and not to judge my brother, For blessed art Thou, unto ages of ages. Amen.* *

But is eternity an alternative to life? Isn't it, on the contrary, the case that it is when one wants everything to be eternal that one most loves life and the world.

A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.

I like to think about the life of wine, how it's a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing, how the sun was shining, if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And, if it's an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now.

I guess maybe I try to make movies that are closer to real life than are many Hollywood movies. But I still try to stay within a commercial narrative, a contemporary American vernacular.

I get asked, 'How can you have such failures in your films?' Well, what else is life about? There's some sense of constant failure in something. Humor gives you a distance from it.

Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law,Pleas'd with a rattle, tickled with a straw:Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,A little louder, but as empty quite:Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,And beads and prayer books are the toys of age!Pleas'd with this bauble still, as that before;Till tir'd he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er.

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,A hero perish or a sparrow fall,Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,And now a bubble burst, and now a world.

Vital spark of heav'nly flame!Quit, oh quit, this mortal frame:Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!

For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight, His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner thingsTo low ambition, and the pride of kings.Let us, since life can little more supplyThan just to look about us, and to die,Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man;A mighty maze! but not without a plan.

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

And die of nothing but a rage to live