Quotes About Fragility

Looking down on their glossy heads, I realized that they were indeed threatened; they were simply unaware of it. We are all vulnerable.

She could not think about it Ã¢â'¬Â¦ any of it Ã¢â'¬Â¦ without going to pieces.

remembered how I was only a speck after all in uncomfortably limitless space, of no account whatever in the general scheme of things, but with a horrid private capacity for being often and easily hurt; and how specks have a trick of dying, which I in my turn would presently do, and a fresh speck, not nearly so nice, as I hoped and believed, would immediately start up and fill my vacancy, perhaps so exactly my vacancy that it would even wear my gloves and stockings.

Sitting there in the dark, I felt very small, and solitary, and defenceless, alone in a great, big, black world.

Incredible what slender threads you begin to hang your hopes on.

This choreography of ruin, the world breaking like glass under a microscope, the way it doesn't crack all at once, but spreads out from the damaged cavities. Still for a moment it all recedes. The backyard potatoes swell quietly buried beneath their canopy of leaves. The wind rubs its hands through the trees.

worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of late autumn are the colours of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, if it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending.

Just as the poppy and the dandelion are scythed down in the flower of their youth by the pitiless scythe of the pitiless scyther who pitilessly scythes their pitiful pans, so poor Renski has played the pretty poppy's pitiful part.

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn!

The slightness of it gestures against the odds. It is like a magic spell.

I would give anything to taste. To taste just dust. Because now that I'm nearly gone, I'm more here than I ever was. Now that I'm nothing but air, all I want is to breathe it. Now that I'm silent forever, haha, it's all words words words with me. Now that I can't just reach out and touch, it's all I want, is to.

It was huge, the room, her mother told her, with nothing in it but thousands of old sherry glasses piled inside each other. Like entering what you think is going to be history and finding endless sad fragility, Zoe says. One kick. Disaster. Careful where you tread.

I'm rubble too, he thinks. Just in a different form. The whole world and all its people. Rubble.

Like entering what you think is going to be history and finding endless sad fragility.

there's nothing left of them, the pantomime innocents or the man with the gun, but bones in grass, bones in flowers, the leafy branches of the ash tree above them. Which s what, in the end, is left of us all, whether we carry a gun while we're here or don't. So. While we're here. I mean, while we're still here.

Do we despise the rose because its beauty is fleeting? Some do, and seek comfort in glass or marble... ...Glass shatters, marble is eaten away by the tides of time. But the rose has unfurled its banner every spring to the sun and will do so for god knows how many uncounted ages more.

You can be betrayed in your sleep. The whole world can tilt while you're dreaming of butterflies.

A young couple — bride eighteen, man twenty-two — came here for their honeymoon. The day after the wedding, he was found to have scarlet fever, and in two days he was dead. How cruel it is when pain and sorrow come to young things, — they are so helpless; what can they do with it? What a rush of desire to go to them and wrap them about in one's long-accustomedness until the little bewildered soul has woven for itself some sort of casing.

oh each poet's a beautiful human girl who must die.

At any moment a force from nowhere could rip me out of my life. I could die of traffic or weather, I could die of war or my heart.

I mean, they're made out of dust. You're all just dust and dried blood, you're dead. You are not absolute.

I am so fragile I can't speak.

and their hearts are already eroded and I too

I notice the fatigue of flowers weighed down by light