Quotes About Ephemeral

her ?ey gelip geçmiyor mu? her ?eyin, varolu?uyla birlikte sahip oldu?u gücü sonuna kadar tüketme f?rsat?n? bulmas? ender de?il midir? her ?ey, ak?nt?ya kap?l?yor, bat?r?l?yor ve kayalarda parçalanm?yor mu?

as thin as piss on a rock.

He knows that after him everything will continue on much as before, except that there will be a minuscule absence, a barely detective gap in the so-called grand scheme, one unit fewer now. Or not even that, not even an empty space where he once was, for all will rush immediately to fill that vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections of him will remain in the minds of others for a while, but presently those others too will die and his few relics with them. And then all will be dark.

For the first time ever, images of art have become ephemeral, ubiquitous, insubstantial, available, valueless, free. They surround us in the same way as a language surrounds us. They have entered the mainstream of life over which they no longer, in themselves, have power.

When I open my wallet to show my papers pay money or check the time of a train I look at your face. The flower's pollen is older than the mountains Aravis is young as mountains go. The flower's ovules will be seeding still when Aravis then aged is no more than a hill. The flower in the heart's wallet, the force of what lives us outliving the mountain. And our faces, my heart, brief as photos.

Clouds gather visibility, and then disperse into invisibility. All appearances are of the nature of clouds.

Philosophers] are like a traveler passing through a field at night who in a momentary lightning flash sees far and wide, but the sight vanishes so swiftly that he is plunged again into the darkness of night before he can take even a step-let alone be directed on the way by its help.

We see how mankind,   without well thinking what they are doing, pursue, with impetuous and   ardent affections, the transitory things of this world; but, in thus   catching at the empty shadow of a happy life, they lose true happiness   itself. In

How frail the bloom, how short the stay That terminates us all! Today we flourish green and gay, Like leaves tomorrow fall.

Newspaper stories were like newly caught fish, worthy of attention only for as long as they remained fresh, which was not very long at all. They

chased by the shadows of clouds.

Newspaper stories were as insubstantial as smoke, as long-lived as mayflies. They did not take root but were instead like weeds that crawled along the ground, stealing the sunlight from more deserving tales.

There's a time in some years, after the first frosts, when the sun gets hot again, and summer returns for a time. Winter is coming; you know that from the way the mornings smell, the way the leaves, half-turned to color, are dry and poised to drop. But summer goes on, a small false summer, all the more precious for being small and false. In Little Belaire, we called this time--for some reason nobody knows--engine summer.

It struck Rosie that nowadays everyone lived the way gay men like Kraft had always lived; in brief collisions, restless, among lovers whom there was no way to fix except for as long as you could hold their hands. And then what? And then remember them, and keep in touch: friends.

Yesternight the sun went hence,And yet is here today.

What if this present were the world's last night?

My world's both parts, and 'o! Both parts must die.

I don't want to die, obviously, but really, the wonder of life is amplified by the fact that it ends.

Miserable mortals who like leaves at one moment flame with life eating the produce of the land and at another moment weakly perish.

I've been through so much in my life. I've seen so much. I know how fast things can change. I know someone can be here one minute and gone the next.

June falls asleep upon her bier of flowers; In vain are dewdrops sprinkled o'er her, In vain would fond winds fan her back to life, Her hours are numbered on the floral dial.

Force is all conquering, but it's victories are short lived.

Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.

The essence of what makes life beautiful is the fact that it can go away.