Quotes About Ephemeral

The body comes and goes. This life, my friend, will come and go. It is a fleeting moment, an impulse in an eternal reality.

We delight in the mere sight of the delicate glow of fading rays clinging to the surface of a dusky wall, there to live out what little life remains to them.

Life is fragile and absurd.

Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.

Pleasures are transient, honors are immortal.

Life is a marvelous, transitory adventure.

I am the life just passing through. I'm what remains and so are you.

Life is a bubble in a lake, that glitters for an instant, bursts, and leaves not even a blur on the water; it is the leap of a minnow, which sends a tiny ripple trembling for a few inches.

Like flowers in a storm, life is full of goodbyes

Everything in life is elusive.

Life that only a few hours before had glowed with enthusiasm and exultation, suddenly paled and sickened.

I don't want to be remembered, I want to be here!

Dreams are real as long as they last. Can we say more of life?

We lay aside letters never to read them again, and at last we destroy them out discretion, and so disappears the most immediate breath of life, irrecoverably for ourselves and for others.

We die every day; every moment deprives us of a portion of life and advances us a step toward the grave; our whole life is only along and painful sickness.

Photos are profound because they have such short lives. They are more like fingerprints, dead leaves, rain puddles, or the corpses of flies.

It is the very joy of this earthly life to think that it will come to an end.

Nothing in life is permanent, not even one's troubles.

Better a thousand times even a swiftly fading, ephemeral moment of life than the epoch-long unconsciousness of the stone.

Time is long but life is short.

Jane Francklyne, born in 1565, had lived for less than a month. She left very little behind. She was buried in the Ecton churchyard, but her father would hardly have paid a carver to engrave so small a stone. If not for the parish register, there would be no record that this Jane Francklyne had ever lived at all. History is what is written and can be found; what isn't saved is lost, sunken and rotted, eaten by the earth.

Death does not tidy up or sweep as it departs. We all of us leave traces other than the ashes and the bones.

when I die the wind will still blow and the stars still shine, for the place I occupy on earth is no more permanent than the water I now make

I see myself as a huge fiery comet, a shooting star. Everyone stops, points up and gasps "Oh look at that!" Then–whoosh, and I'm gone... and they'll never see anything like it ever again... and they won't be able to forget me–ever.