Quotes About Ephemeral

Men were foolish and were made only so that they should die, while mountains and rivers went on for ever and did not notice the passing of time.

We spend our lives in the attempt to capture memory forever

Time is the only commodity in life that cannot be bought, sold, borrowed, given out as a gift and it cannot be inherited.

The world around me is dissolving leaving here and there spots of time. The world is a cancer eating itself away.

A single night is stuffed with minutes, but they leak out, one by one.

We create eternity out of crumbs of time.

A moment in time has multiple moments.

A moment can be left inside the memory of time.

Nothing really belongs to us but time which even he has who has nothing else.

For me, it's always a failure of the imagination. I have that anxiety that time is passing, that everything is ultimately fleeting and impermanent. I better take advantage of every single moment.

Celebrity was a long time in coming it will go away. Everything goes away.

Time flies never to be recalled.

This world is not a place where people can be together forever.

When the moonlight and the waterfall come together, all other things fade from the scene!

The birds have vanished into the sky, and now the last cloud drains away. We sit together, the mountain and me, until only the mountain remains.

Forever is not granted to any of us," the duchess said. "Even tomorrow is not granted as by right. Any of us can go at any moment.

But she did not want to break away. This moment was the whole of life. Tomorrow he would be gone.

There was no looking to the future. It was a moment without future.

The next few days were all she could ever have of him.

Art is only good at the moment it's done. After that it's dead. It's just so much dead shit. Artists are like people trying to hoard their shit.

the sweetness had gone so quickly from her

I held my breath as we do sometimes to stop time when something wonderful has touched us...

In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever?