Quotes About Transience

All of these stars, the most powerful actors in film, they were all gone in an instant.

Anything you can acquire is only another thing you'll lose.

Brandy says not to watch myself too close. Honey, she says, times like this, it helps to think of yourself as a sofa or a newspaper, something made by a lot of other people but not made to last forever.

It's that kind of faux wisdom. That kind of Chinese food enlightenment where you know that ten minutes after your head clears, you'll forget it all.

Essa é sua vida, ela vai acabando a cada minuto.

Un día estás vivo y arrastrándote por el mundo, y al siguiente te has convertido en un frío fertilizante, en bufé para gusanos. Este es el asombroso milagro de la muerte.

How could you ever bring yourself to love so deeply if you truly knew how brief a lifetime can be?

Because we all end up in the dirt at the end.

The brief arc of our days, O Sestius, prevents us from launching prolonged hopes.

I'm afraid you're going to disappear one day, Kazahaya. Just like your name…just like the wind.

Must beauty blossom, rooted in decay, And night devour its flaming hues alway?

Flesh could not keep its glamour, nor eyes their sheen. They would go to nothing soon. But monsters are forever.

There must still be room for the falling note, of course. Even in an undying world there are times when beauty passes from sight, or love passes from the heart, and we feel the sorrow of partition.

This will not come again. Nor this. Nor this....

But when I look out at it I think, well, it's going to take us all one of these days, whoever we are: mad bastards, lovers, drunkards, it's not going to pick and choose. We'll all go to nothing sooner or later. And you know, maybe it's my age, but that doesn't worry me any longer. We all have our time, and when it's over, it's over.

Things came and went away; that was a kind of magic. And in between? Pursuits and conjurings, horrors, guises. The occasional joy. That there was room for joy, ah! that was magic too.

Life is smoke, plain and simple; we just fool ourselves that it's otherwise. All it takes is one good gust and we float away and disappear, leaving behind only the scent of our passing in the form of memories.

Everything in the garden is dying, that's what time of year it is. The leaves blaze and desiccate in their dying before twisting to the ground as ash.

He was aware of his body as a shell. Fragile, thin as excuses. A vessel containing the dust of his essential him-ness which would be lost when the vessel failed. Well, that was the way of the world. For a time he was fixed in his body, stuck and named and fixed in place, but one day that would not be the case. One day only his name would remain, on a tombstone or etched onto an urn, marking his dried bones or ashes.

Like the moon, you're only good and visible a few days a month. Exerting influence, pulling up whitecaps. The rest of time falling away, cut up into parts and nobody knows where you are.

Now he thought about the poor man and his last view of earth: the groove of rust worn from the tub's leaky faucet, like the ooze from a wound.

When I walk the halls of my high school those smudges are a constant reminder that death is a mere squint away.

Quand on voir ce qu'on fut sur terre et ce qu'on lassie/ Seul le silence est grand tout le reste est faiblesse.

Everybody dies. And the rest of us move on until it's our turn.