Quotes About Transience

Even the tiniest things mean something. Whenever you see flies or insects in a still life—a wilted petal, a black spot on the apple—the painter is giving you a secret message. He's telling you that living things don't last—it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.

living things don't last—it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer—there it is.

That life—whatever else it is—is short.

That life—whatever else it is—is short. That fate is

A teahouse amid the cherry blossoms, on the way to death. p136

They want it all as detailed as possible because even the tiniest things mean something. Whenever you see flies or insects in a still life -- a wilted petal, a black spot on the apple -- the painter is giving you a secret message. He's telling you that living things don't last -- it's all temporary. Death in life. That's why they're called natures mortes. Maybe you don't see it at first with all the beauty and bloom, the little speck of rot. But if you look closer -- there it is.

Tempus fugit. See fugitib nii, et vähe pole.

There was a rose that faded young; I saw its shattered beauty hung Upon a broken stem. I heard them say, What need to care With roses budding everywhere? I did not answer them.

And any small moments of intense, flaring beauty such as this morning's will be utterly forgotten, dissolved by time like a super-8 film left out in the rain, without sound, and quickly replaced by thousands of silently growing trees.

TERMINAL WANDERLUST: A condition common to people of transient middle-class upbringings. Unable to feel rooted in any one environment, they move continually in the hopes of finding an idealized sense of community in the next location.

Life is boring. People are vengeful. Good things always end. We do so many things and we don't know why, and if we do find out why, it's decades later and knowing why doesn't matter any more.

An old poet, Robert Herrick, put it like this:    " Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain Once lost, can ne'er be found again.

number 118, oganesson. That element was only confirmed in 2002, and it lasts for just one five-hundredth of a second before decaying into something else.

Lustre of man walking proud beneath the sky diminishes to nothing and goes unregarded.

The seed of mortals broods o'er passing things, and hath nought surer than the smoke-cloud's shadow.

For mortal kind taketh thought only for the day, and hath no more surety than the shadow of smoke.

There's nothing certain in a man's life except this: That he must lose it.

Everyone must die! That is so, is it not? If it comes quickly from the sky—bouff—like that, it is as well as any other way. One is alive for a time—yes, and then one is dead. That is what happens in this world.

Os tolos compram coisas que morrem nas primeiras geadas e aí desejam ter ficado com os girassóis e os bem-me-queres!

And when anything beautiful's dead, it's a loss to the world.

If we try to measure Now, we find it's always gone, has become part of the past.

How fast the time goes. That's what people were always telling us, at least; the strangers' hands on our bellies, saying how careful we must be to enjoy the time. How it'll all be over in a blink of an eye. How before we know it, they'll be walking, talking, leaving us.

Nothing is Real; it's a Cosmic Drama. We are just Actors; we Come and we Go. There will be Laughter; there will be Tears. Such is the Cosmic Show.

So what does one do if one's refuge is in another person? or in an institution? or in a way of thinking? or in family life? or in a political view? or in anything which is subject to change, to birth and death?