Quotes About Ephemeral

All those people who came into the world with me and have already left it.

In short, know this: Human lives are brief and trivial. Yesterday a blob of semen; tomorrow embalming fluid, ash. To pass through this brief life as nature demands. To give it up without complaint. Like an olive that ripens and falls. Praising its mother, thanking the tree it grew on.

Whatever is beautiful owes its beauty to itself, and when it dies its beauty dies with it. Praise adds nothing to beauty, makes it neither better nor worse.

Soon you will have forgotten all things: soon all things will have forgotten you.

All is ephemeral, both that which remembers and that which is remembered.

Or is it your reputation that's bothering you? But look at how soon we're all forgotten. The abyss of endless time that swallows it all. The emptiness of all those applauding hands. The people who praise us—how capricious they are, how arbitrary. And the tiny region in which it all takes place. The whole earth a point in space—and most of it uninhabited

Cuántos de los agasajados con muchos himnos están ya entregados al olvido! ¡Cuántos de los que hicieron esos himnos hace tiempo que están ausentes!

iii. that if you were suddenly lifted up and could see life and its variety from a vast height, and at the same time all the things around you, in the sky and beyond it, you'd see how pointless it is. And no matter how often you saw it, it would be the same: the same life forms, the same life span. Arrogance … about this?

Before long, either ashes or a skeleton, and either just a name or not even that

hay que ver siempre lo humano como flor de un día e inconsistente, ayer era una mucosidad, mañana será momia y cenizas. Ese

How quickly all things disappear, in the universe the bodies themselves, but in time the remembrance of them; what is the nature of all sensible things, and particularly those which attract with the bait of pleasure or terrify by pain, or are noised abroad by vapoury fame; how worthless, and contemptible, and sordid, and perishable, and dead they are—all this it is the part of the intellectual faculty to observe. To

tanto el que goza de un tiempo más largo como el que ha de morir rápidamente deja atrás lo mismo, porque sólo es el presente de lo que va a verse privado, si es eso lo único que tiene y si uno no deja atrás lo que no tiene.

In a little while you too will close your eyes, and soon there will be others mourning the man who buries you.

Time is a river, a violent current of events, glimpsed once and always carried past us, and another follows and is gone.

Like an attachment to a sparrow: we glimpse it and it's gone.

Everything lasts for a day, the one who remembers and the remembered.

Keep in mind how fast things pass by and are gone—those that are now, and those to come. Existence flows past us like a river: the "what" is in constant flux, the "why" has a thousand variations. Nothing is stable, not even what's right here

And how trivial the things we want so passionately are.

Everything by which people set so much store in life is emptiness, putrefaction, pettiness; little dogs nipping at one another; little children who laugh as they fight, and then suddenly burst into tears.

They are soon gone, and we fly away. . . . So teach us to count our days / that we may gain a wise heart" (90.12).

I feel like cotton candy: sugar and air. Squeeze me and I'd turn into a small sickly damp wad of weeping pinky-red.

Where do the words go when we have said them?

Mushrooms were the roses in the garden of that unseen world, because the real mushroom plant was underground. The parts you could see - what most people called a mushroom - was just a brief apparition. A cloud flower.

The tulips along the border are redder than ever, opening, no longer wine cups but chalices; thrusting themselves up, to what end? They are, after all, empty. When they are old they turn themselves inside out, explode slowly, the petals thrown like shards.