Quotes About Transience

From the moment you are born, you could die. I think as an artist it is important to meditate on that.

It's really wonderful to be able to be nobody, and then have a moment when I can be somebody, and then go right back to being nobody again.

Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.

You do a straight play for three months, four months, maybe. It's so brief. And then you're on to the next thing. I loved that. I love that rhythm and that pace.

It's very natural for me now. A lot of airplanes, a lot of flights, a lot of hotels. Go home to pack and leave. But I'm used to it.

I like the transience of Klimt paintings.

No parent is there forever. So I won't be here forever with these kids.

Everything I have is for sale. Material items are just things that pass through your hands that mean very little or nothing.

Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live.

Everything on earth is a game. A passing thing. We all end up dead. We all end up the same, don't we?

When times are difficult, I tell myself, 'I'm just passing through.'

The mood in which my book was conceived and executed, was in fact to some extent a passing one.

I want to create a foundation, like a maison, in my home in the Marais. I am going to leave everything there. I am only passing through. I'm not a proprietor of anything, even if I have homes and things.

I've always believed there is a better place somewhere. I feel like I'm E.T. and I'm just passing through.

Feelings pass like clouds but love endures like the sky.

Er erkundigte sich nach Agnes. Sie sei weggegangen, sagte ich, und er lächelte anzüglich. "Sie gehen alle irgendwann", sagte er, "mach dir nichts draus, die Welt ist voll schöner Frauen.

Go mortals, sweat, pant, toil, range the lands and seas to pile up riches you cannot keep; glory that will not last. The life we lead is a sleep; whatever we do, dreams. Only death breaks the sleep and wakes us from dreaming. I wish I could have woken before this.

I had got this far, and was thinking of what to say next, and as my habit is, I was pricking the paper idly with my pen. And I thought how, between one dip of the pen and the next, time goes on, and I hurry, drive myself, and speed toward death. We are always dying. I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or stop their ears, they are all dying.

Agatha was a connoisseur of headaches, and was relieved at the transitory nature of this one.

Everything in life is just for a while.

No single thing abides; and all things are fucked up.

I seem to walk on a transparent surface and see beneath me all the bones and wrecks and tentacles that will eventually claim me: in other words, old age, incapacity, loneliness, death of others & myself...

Life is slow dying.

Living toys are something novel, But it soon wears off somehow.