Quotes About Fragility

Commit a crime, and the earth is made of glass.

As human beings, we have a terminal disease called mortality. The current death rate is 100 percent.

For if we're destroyed, the knowledge is dead...We're nothing more than dust jackets for books...so many pages to a person...

YOU CAN'T DEPEND ON PEOPLE BECAUSE... ...they go away. ...strangers die. ...people you know fairly well die. ...friends die. ...people murder people, like in books. ...your own folks can die. So...

We're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big. When we forget how close the wilderness is in the night, my grandpa said, someday it will come in and get us, for we will have forgotten how terrible and real it can be.

Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer.

He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it.

He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out.

He smelled of moon swamps and old Egyptian bandages. He was something found in museums, wrapped in nicotine linens, sealed in glass. But he was alive, puling like a babe, and shriveling unto death, fast, very fast, before their eyes.

Don't haggle and nag them; you were so recently of them yourself. They are so confident that they will run on forever. But they won't run on. They don't know that this is all one huge big blazing meteor that makes a pretty fire in space, but that some day it'll have to hit. They see only the blaze, the pretty fire, as you saw it.

In the sunlight, snow melts, crystals evaporate into a steam, into nothing. In the firelight, vapors dance and vanish. In the core of a volcano, fragile things burst and disappear. The girl, in the gunfire, in the heat, in the concussion, folded like a soft scarf, melted like a crystal figurine. What was left of her, ice, snowflake, smoke, blew away in the wind. The tiller seat was empty.

Over the years, they had destroyed all of him, removing hands, arms, and legs and leaving him with substitutes as delicate and useless as chess pieces. And now they were tampering with something more intangible--the memory; they were trying to cut the wires which led back into another year.

It fell to the floor, an exquisite thing, a small thing that could upset balances and knock down a line of small dominoes and then big dominoes and then gigantic dominoes, all down the years across Time. Eckels' mind whirled. It couldn't change things. Killing one butterfly couldn't be that important! Could it?

His heart cringed from the fanning motion of ribs like pale spiders crouched and fiddling with their prey.

Nosotros, los habitantes de la Tierra, tenernos un talento especial para arruinar las cosas grandes y hermosas.

The leaf-light flickered on the paper-thin skin of the old men's wrists, the shadows alternating with fading sunlight. They moved in a soft whisper.

let the green and the land and the wilderness in more, to remind people that we're allotted a little space on earth and that we survive in that wilderness that can take back what it has given, as easily as blowing its breath on us or sending the sea to tell us we are not so big.

He felt her there, he saw her without opening his eyes, her hair burnt by chemicals to a brittle straw, her eyes with a kind of cataract unseen but suspect far behind the pupils, the reddened pouting lips, the body as thin as a praying mantis from dieting, and her flesh like white bacon.

Fata, în focul armei, în c?ldur?, sub È™oc, se îndoi ca o eÈ™arf? moale, se topi ca o figurin? de cleÈ™tar. În urma ei, gheaÈ›a, fulgii de z?pad?, fumul se risipir? în vânt. Locul de la cârm? r?mase gol.

It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there had never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

Kummallista, miten naisilta puuttuu kosketus totuuteen. He elävät omassa maailmassaan, jonka kaltaista ei ole koskaan ollut eikä voi koskaan tulla. Se on kerta kaikkiaan liian kaunis, ja jos he sellaisen saisivat pannuksi pystyyn, se menisi pirstaleiksi ennen ensimmäistä päivänlaskua. Jokin kirottu tosiasia, jonka kanssa me miehet olemme luomisen päivästä asti eläneet kaikessa sovussa, ponkaisisi pystyyn ja kaataisi koko kapistuksen.

It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there has never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to set it up it would go to pieces before the first sunset. Some confounded fact we men have been living contentedly with ever since the day of creation would start up and knock the whole thing over.

Es extraño lo lejos que están las mujeres de la realidad. Viven en un mundo propio que jamás ha existido y que nunca podrá existir. Es demasiado hermoso y, si quisieran construirlo, se vendría abajo antes de la primera puesta de sol. Cualquiera de las malditas cosas con las que los hombres llevamos conviviendo sin problemas desde el día de la creación se pondría de por medio y lo desharía en pedazos.

In plucking the fruit of memory one runs the risk of spoiling its bloom