Quotes About Fragility

Sweet little flower of heavenly birth You were too fair to bloom on earth.

Health is merely the slowest way someone can die.

His legs of iron, his feet part of iron and part of clay.

Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.

For we must needs die, and are as water spilt on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again.

Life's like a bubble...pop - Caleb alan Hall

esse homem que morava numa garrafa de uísque como os barcos dos colecionadores

Somos ele e eu Sandokans de meia idade, pensou o médico, em que a aventura consiste em decifrar a página necrológica do jornal na esperança de que a omissão do nosso nome nos garanta estarmos vivos. E vamos entretanto partindo aos pedaços, por fracções, o cabelo, o apêndice, a vesicula, alguns dentes, como encomendas desmontáveis

It is countries with no dissent, which live in the quiet of the grave, that are vulnerable and fragile.

But books, like people, die. They die in fires or floods or in the mouths of worms or at the whims of tyrants. If they are not safeguarded, they go out of the world. And when a book goes out of the world, the memory dies a second death.

You can cling to this world for a thousand years and still be plucked out of it in a breath.

German sailors sing a drunken song in the street, and a house spider over the stove spins a new web every night, and to Marie-Laure this is a double cruelty: that everything else keeps living, that the spinning earth does not pause for even an instant in its trip around the sun.

It is the rarest thing...that gets preserved, that does not get erased, broken down, transformed.

Nearly every species that has ever lived has gone extinct, Laurette. No reason to think we humans will be any different!

It's like reaching into a sack full of cotton and finding a razor blade inside, everything constant and undeviating and then that one dangerous thing, so sharp you can hardly feel it open your skin.

He lingers over images of Marie-Laure—her hands, her hair—even as he worries that to concentrate on them too long is to risk wearing them out.

Doesn't look like much, does he?" murmurs Frederick. "Hardly a couple of ounces of feathers and bones. But that bird can fly to Africa and back. Powered by bugs and worms and desire." The wagtail hops from twig to twig. Werner rubs his aching eyes. It's just a bird. "Ten thousand years ago," whispers Frederick, "they came through here in the millions. When this place was a garden, one endless garden from end to end.

Stick-thin, alabaster-pale Etienne LeBlanc runs down the rue de Dinan with Madame Ruelle, the baker's wife, on his heels: the least-robust rescue ever assembled.

Nearly every species that has ever lived has gone extinct, Laurette. No reason to think we humans will be any different!" Dr. Geffard pronounces

Look closely and the picturesque inevitably cracks apart and becomes more interesting.

he smokes so much it as if he is turning himself into ash.

It's dirty and wormholed, colonized with mold, as though fungal hyphae, time, and water have collaborated to make an erasure poem.

she's hardly there: just morphine and glassy eyes and an odor that carries him back to Korea.

A way for a small thing to destroy a much larger thing.