Quotes About Transience

Ahí va la pobre, a romperse en él. Lo mismo que se rompe una ola en las rocas. Un poco de espuma y adiós.

I don't mourn the loss of my childhood; I mourn because everything, including (my) childhood, is lost.

É talvez o último dia da minha vida. Saudei o sol, levantando a mão direita, Mas não o saudei, dizendo-lhe adeus, Fiz sinal de gostar de o ver antes: mais nada.

All of this passes, and none of it means anything to me. It's all foreign to my fate, and even to fate as a whole. It's just unconsciousness, curses of protest when chance hurls stones, echoes of unknown voices – a collective mishmash of life.

Mankind is a postponed corpse that breeds.

Nada fica de nada. Nada somos. Um pouco ao sol e ao ar nos atrasamos Da irrespirável treva que nos pese Da húmida terra imposta, Cadáveres adiados que procriam. Leis feitas, 'státuas vistas, odes findas - Tudo tem cova sua. Se nós, carnes A que um íntimo sol dá sangue, temos Poente, porque não elas? Somos contos contando contos, nada.

Domani anch'io - l'anima che sente e pensa, l'universo che io sono per me stesso - si, domani anch'io sarò soltanto uno che ha smesso di passare in queste strade, uno che altri evocheranno vagamente con un che ne sarà stato di lui?. E tutto quanto ora faccio, quanto ora sento e vivo non sarà niente di più che un passante in meno nella quotidianità delle strade di qualsiasi città.

Que importa àquele que já nada importa Que o um perca e outro vença, Se a aurora raia sempre, Se cada ano com a primavera Aparecem as folhas E com o outono cessam?

I see life as a roadside inn where I have to stay until the coach from the abyss pulls up. I don't know where it will take me, because I don't know anything. I could see this inn as a prison, for I'm compelled to wait in it; I could see it as a social centre, for it's here that I meet others.

I like to think, because I know it won't be long before I stop thinking.

Vi-te a dizer um adeus A alguém que se despedia, E quase implorei dos céus Que eu partisse qualquer dia.

O que me dói não é O que há no coração Mas essas coisas lindas Que nunca existirão… São as formas sem forma Que passam sem que a dor As possa conhecer Ou as sonhar o amor. São como se a tristeza Fosse árvore e uma a uma, Caíssem suas folhas Entre o vestígio e a bruma

It is as if I am an old man who sees all the friends of his childhood dying around him and who thinks his own death at hand.

Citesc ca ÅŸi cum m-aÅŸ afla în trecere.Åži tocmai la clasici,la cei calmi,la cei care,dac? sufer?,nu p spun.

We are eternal travelers of ourselves, and the only landscape that exists is what we are. We possess nothing, because we do not even possess ourselves. We have nothing because we are nothing.

And what a refreshing and happy horror that there was nobody there! Not even we, who walked there, were there… For we were nobody. We were nothing at all… We had no life for Death to have to kill. We were so tenuous and slight that the wind's passing left us prostrate, and time's passage caressed us like a breeze grazing the top of a palm.

There is no happiness without knowledge, but the knowledge of happiness brings unhappiness, because to know one is happy is to know that one is passing through happiness and, therefore, will soon be obliged to leave it behind. In happiness as in everything, knowledge kills. Not to know, however, is not to exist.

For me life is an inn where I must stay until the carriage from the abyss calls to collect me. I don't know where that carriage will take me because I know nothing.

Eres la única forma que no produce hastío porque eres tornadiza con nuestro sentimiento, porque, como besas nuestra alegría, entretienes nuestro dolor y nuestro tedio y eres el opio que conforta y el sueño que nos hace descansar, y la muerte que cruza y junta las manos.

Después morirá el planeta giratorio en que todo esto ocurrió.

Olá, guardador de rebanhos, Aí à beira da estrada, Que te diz o vento que passa?"   "Que é vento, e que passa, E que já passou antes, E que passará depois. E

We were so tenuous and slight that the wind's passing left us prostrate, and time's passage caressed us like a breeze grazing the top of a palm.

I read as one who's passing through. And it's in classical writers, in the calm-spirited, in those who if they suffer don't mention it, that I feel like a holy transient, an anointed pilgrim, a contemplator for no reason of a world with no purpose, Prince of the Great Exile, who as he was leaving gave the last beggar the ultimate alms of his desolation.

El propio vivir es morir, porque no tenemos un día más en nuestra vida en que no tengamos, por ello, un día menos.