Quotes About Fragility

I walked across the snowy plain of the Tiergarten - a smashed statue here, a newly planted sapling there; the Brandenburger Tor, with its red flag flapping against the blue winter sky; and on the horizon, the great ribs of a gutted railway station, like the skeleton of a whale. In the morning light it was all as raw and frank as the voice of history which tells you not to fool yourself; this can happen to any city, to anyone, to you.

Time passeth swift away; Our life is frail, and we may die to-day.

Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair.

he looked like one of those dried-up faces you carve out of an apple in third grade to teach you that time is cruel and we are all just going to shrivel up and die, so there's no point in getting out of bed.

in the blink of an eye my beauty becomes but a feast for worms, and I, a forgotten sigh in a sea of nothingness.

I don't know. I don't really have a plan. I don't even know if she's lucid. I've been on autopilot since I heard. I was waiting for you to get home so I could fall apart.

The universe is spinning apart: a pinwheel driven to the point of failure. Darkness and emptiness, and what matters still?

Life was the most dangerous thing there was.

Sometimes, if I am not careful, and I stare too long at a flower, it shrivels and dies.

Trust is like glass. You think you can see through it, that you know what's on the other side of it. You pretend you know your partner and that he knows you. But it's all an illusion. One day you bump against it and it cracks and you cut yourself and you bleed.

A book is a fragile creature, it suffers the wear of time, it fears rodents, the elements and clumsy hands. so the librarian protects the books not only against mankind but also against nature and devotes his life to this war with the forces of oblivion.

a book is a fragile creature, it suffers the wear of time, it fears rodents, the elements, clumsy hands. If for a hundred and a hundred years everyone had been able freely to handle our codices, the majority of them would no longer exist. So the librarian protects them not only against mankind but also against nature, and devotes his life to this war with the forces of oblivion, the enemy of truth.

sách là má»™t sinh v?t y?u Ä'u?i, nó ch?u Ä'á»±ng sá»± bào mòn c?a th?i gian, s? các loài g?m nh?m, k? th?y, k? h?a, và e ng?i nh?ng bàn tay v?ng v?, c?c m?ch.

T?pk? a??r? sevecenliÄŸin bir savaÅŸç?y? yumuÅŸat?p güçsüz düÅŸürmesi gibi, bu a??r? sahip ç?k?c? ve üste titreyen sevgi de, kitab? önünde sonunda öldürecek olan hastal???n etkisine aç?k bir duruma gelecekti.

Pero entonces, si el ser es tan frágil e insustancial como para sostenerse únicamente por la ilusión de quienes buscan su secreto, , entonces, como decía Amparo en la tenda, después de su derrota, entonces realmente no hay redención, somos todos esclavos, y lo único que merecemos es un amo...

The excessively rich were as shy as wild birds; everybody was hunting them and they took wing at the least hint of danger. They were abnormally sensitive and had to be handled as if they were made of wet tissue paper. They would absorb flattery like sponges—but only that subtle kind which assured them that they were above flattery.

The shock caused by the fall of a careless word displaces that against which it strikes. At times it happens, without our knowing why, that because we have received an almost imperceptible blow from a chance word, the heart insensibly empties itself of love. He who loves, perceives a decline in his happiness. There is nothing more to be dreaded than this slow exudation from the fissure in the vase.

Women play on their beauty as children play with their knives. And they hurt themselves on it, too.

She could become a child again, run and frolic, leave her hat on Valjean's knees and fill it with bunches of wild flowers. She could watch the butterflies, although she never tried to catch them; tenderness and compassion are a part of loving, and a girl cherishing something equally fragile in her heart is mindful of the wings of butterflies.

When we reach out to pluck a flower the stem trembles, seeming both to shrink and to offer itself. The human body has something of this tremor at the moment when the mysterious hand of death reaches out to pluck a soul.

Las mujeres juegan con su belleza como los niños con un cuchillo, y se hieren.

When those who found this skeleton attempted to disengage it from that which it held in its grasp, it crumbled to dust.

She had spears of straw and grass in her hair, not like Ophelia gone mad through contact with Hamlet's madness, but because she had slept in some stable loft.

In the case of sand as in that of woman, there is a fineness which is treacherous.