Quotes About Transience

El sufrimiento y las molestías son inevitables en esta vida, pero si encuentras la quietud necesaria con el tiempo descubrirás que todo ( lo incómodo y lo hermoso) pasa con el tiempo

Alma sighed. That was quite a question. What did she believe? I believe that we are all transient, she began. She thought for a while and added, I believe that we are half-blind and full of errors. I believe that we understnad very little, and what we do understand is mostly wrong. I believe that life cannot be survived . . . but if one is lucky, life can be endured for quite a long while. If one is both lucky and stubborn, life can sometimes even be enjoyed.

Even someone you've inhabited rooms with, and seen naked everyday, seen sitting on the toilet through a half-opened door, can fade out after a while and become an outline.

Many are the friendships that have found an unforseeen and sudden end on a journey, and few are those that survive it.

remembered how I was only a speck after all in uncomfortably limitless space, of no account whatever in the general scheme of things, but with a horrid private capacity for being often and easily hurt; and how specks have a trick of dying, which I in my turn would presently do, and a fresh speck, not nearly so nice, as I hoped and believed, would immediately start up and fill my vacancy, perhaps so exactly my vacancy that it would even wear my gloves and stockings.

Sometimes someone will be standing in front of me, and already I feel him walking away. It's only a matter of time, so what's the point?

worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of late autumn are the colours of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, if it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending.

The disease of mortality is in us from the womb, from the day of our birth we are on the way to our death.

Just as the poppy and the dandelion are scythed down in the flower of their youth by the pitiless scythe of the pitiless scyther who pitilessly scythes their pitiful pans, so poor Renski has played the pretty poppy's pitiful part.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,And after many a summer dies the swan.

Our little systems have their day.

The mountain endures. But when after ages it has worn away, it has gone. If a replica arises, it is yet a new mountain. A colour is eternal. It haunts time like a spirit. It comes and it goes. But where it comes, it is the same colour. It neither survives nor does it live.

For the crown of our life as it closesIs darkness, the fruit there of dust.

For life is sweet, but after life is death.This is the end of every man's desire.

Ah that such sweet things should be fleet,Such fleet things sweet!

I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end.

We are not sure of sorrow; and joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

This world is not a permanent place, it is a passage, a road on which you are passing. There are two kinds of people here: One is the kind of those who have sold their souls for eternal damnation, the other is of those who have purchased their souls and freed them from damnation.

Surely the likeness of this world is that of a snake: it is soft to touch, and deadly poisonous. The ignorant child is distracted by it, and the one with understanding and intellect is cautious of it. So turn away from what fascinates you in it, for how little of it stays with you.

But I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin, fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air's taken them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leafy-grimy corners of yards.

before she had died she had been young, like him, and not yet been onced by life. Today

Do we despise the rose because its beauty is fleeting? Some do, and seek comfort in glass or marble... ...Glass shatters, marble is eaten away by the tides of time. But the rose has unfurled its banner every spring to the sun and will do so for god knows how many uncounted ages more.