Quotes About Ephemeral

Life is short, love is rare, and time is easy to waste.

Seas move away, why not lovers? The harbours of Ephesus, the rivers of Heraclitus disappear and are replaced by estuaries of silt. The wife of Candaules becomes the wife of Gyges. Libraries burn.

Nothing lasts. Not even literary or artistic fame protects worldly things around us.

during the night, in the no-longer-damp path of its stream. Nothing lasts. Not even literary or artistic fame protects worldly

I've been given an amazing opportunity and I could not be more grateful. But I also know that all this will eventually die off. It's not real. It will go away and then you'll go away and then, I don't know, I'll be left sitting in some English hotel room.

There are some situations in life that are simply not funny, and there's nothing funny about them, but they're rare, and they don't last all that long.

The saddest thing about ephemerals was that their little lives rarely held time enough for love.

Love was generous precisely because it could never be immortal.

How loved, how honored once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot A heap of dust alone remains of thee 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

I do know that I fell in love with the moment of falling in love and I wanted to keep that moment alive forever, at the expense of all those moments to follow.

'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.

A little while the rose, And after that the thorn; An hour of dewy morn, And then the glamour goes. Ah, love in beauty born, A little while the rose!

I love the life of an actor because you spend brief amounts of time with other people and then you just leave. I need to be alone a lot, and I need the outdoors.

She let herself love me for three minutes. Can three minutes last forever? I ask myself, but already know the answer. Probably not, I reply. But maybe they last long enough.

Love, from its very nature, must be transitory.

a cyclamen that looks like a flight of butterflies, frozen for a single, exquisite moment in the white heart of Time...

Perhaps it's my natural pessimism, but it seems that an awfully large part of travel these days is to see things while you still can.

Most of what has lived on Earth has left behind no record at all.

You can get some sense of the immaterial quality of clouds by strolling through fog—which is, after all, nothing more than a cloud that lacks the will to fly.

Life on Earth, you see, is not only brief but dismayingly tenuous.

It is only the brevity of lifetimes that keeps us from appreciating the changes.

Where body meets air, we are all cadavers. These outer skin cells are replaced every month. We shed skin copiously, almost carelessly: some twenty-five thousand flakes a minute, over a million pieces every hour. Run a finger along a dusty shelf, and you are in large part clearing a path through fragments of your former self. Silently and remorselessly we turn to dust.

It is an arresting thought that all that makes you lovely is deceased. Where body meets air, we are all cadavers. These outer skin cells are replaced every month. We shed skin copiously, almost carelessly: some twenty-five thousand flakes a minute, over a million pieces every hour. Run a finger along a dusty shelf, and you are in large part clearing a path through fragments of your former self. Silently and remorselessly we turn to dust.

and that's you gone, but it was good while it lasted.