Quotes About Fragility

They are such thin things, these lives of ours; cheap got, cheap lost, mere flickers against the ever dark, brief shadows on a wall. This life no more substantial than breath, a light which fills the chambers of our bodies, and is gone.

When they'd settled into bed last night, everything had seemed good and safe. Yeah, maybe this was worse, to have that suddenly taken away.

Dust coated the long-dark light fixtures on the ceiling, at least half of them busted, jagged glass screwed into rusty holes.

Edna St Vincent Millay said: My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But, ah, my foes, and oh, my friends – It gives a lovely light.

The Young Man came to the Old Man seeking counsel. I broke something, Old Man. How badly is it broken? It's in a million little pieces. I'm afraid I can't help you. Why? There's nothing you can do. Why? It can't be fixed. Why? It's broken beyond repair. It's in a million little pieces.

That was beautiful. She is holding my hand. No, it wasn't. If she let go, I would fall apart. It was. It was beautiful because it was honest and it was beautiful because it hurt and it was beautiful because you didn't have to tell it to me. Fall apart. It makes me feel like shit.

The Chinese enjoyed the spectacle of death, Jim had decided, as a way of reminding themselves of how precariously they were alive. They liked to be cruel for the same reason, to remind themselves of the vanity of thinking the world was anything else.

She had enormous gray eyes and knees that made you cry they were so sorry looking and knobby. If there is some part of every loved one that will make you cry to contemplate it, such for Joe were these poor, sad, bony knees of Sally Buck.

I wish I knew. It's almost like nature is trying to show us that she's still more powerful than man. No matter how many of each other we kill in war, nature can still kill more of us. No matter how much we think we know about life, she still can make us look impotent.

We live in snow globes, don't we? Pick them up, shake them, years swirl about us and settle.

One should not believe too strongly in a life which can easily vanish.

One should not believe too easily in a life which can easily vanish.

I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.

People die, sure . . . but it's heartbreaking and unnecessary how we lose things. From pure carelessness.

Even the tiniest things mean something. Whenever you see flies or insects in a still life—a wilted petal, a black spot on the apple—the painter is giving you a secret message. He's telling you that living things don't last—it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.

sen ona hangi yüzünü gösterirsen o da büyük bir samimiyet ve derinlik illüzyonu yaratarak sana deÄŸiÅŸtirmeye gerek bile duymadan senin ayn?n? yans?t?yor, oysa asl?nda kendisi t?pk? bir ayna kadar k?r?lgan ve s??.

living things don't last—it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.

Di quali ricordi ci possiamo fidare? Basta solo pensarci di sfuggita per accorgersi che i ricordi sono sicuri quanto una bolla di sapone.

I remembered the words particularly: Somebody pulled a thread of the fabric and it all dissolved.

Life, for people, begins to crumble on the edges; they don't realize it.

Beauty is a hard thing. Beauty is a mean story. Beauty is slender girls who die young, fine-featured delicate creatures about whom men write poems. Beauty, my first girlfriend said to me, is that inner quality often associated with great amounts of leisure time. And I loved her for that.

Except once, long ago, over an estrangement with his wife Mariotta, Lord Culter had never been jealous of the young brother he had seen grow from babyhood. Until the moment Francis had left home at sixteen, a prisoner of war to the English, Richard knew him solely as a blond and delicate boy, interested only, it seemed, in reading and music, whose apparent fragility concealed a will of steel, and a turn of phrase which could wound like a sword-cut.

No ties; no duty; no relief. Three filaments gone in the life-thread, fragile as the thread of the silk-moth, which has no organs by which it can nourish itself, but instead is born, and loves once, and then dies.

What'll Geoffrey do when you pull off your First, my child? demanded Miss Haydock. Well, Eve -- it will be awkward if I do that. Poor lamb! I shall have to make him believe I only did it by looking fragile and pathetic at the viva.