Quotes About Vanity

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

There's nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys. Renown and grace is dead. The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.

O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hopes in air of your good looks, Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready, with every nod, to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.

If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps

?ycie jest jedynie przelotnym cieniem; ?a?osnym aktorem, co przez godzin? puszy si? i miota na scenie, po czym znika; opowie?ci? idioty, pe?n? wrzasku i w?ciek?o?ci, a nie znacz?c? nic.

Then he undressed and brushed his teeth. He examined his face in the slightly tarnished looking-glass above the wash-basin. He was fifty-seven, but according to this reflection older. His face would seem younger if he put on a bit of weight; chubbiness could be made to cover a multitude of sins. But he didn't want that; he liked being thought of as beyond things.

She thought of death and of her own in particular: the death of her body and the death of her face.

Der Mensch mag sein moko (Tätowierung) in die Erde tätowieren, aber sobald seine Wachsamkeit nachlässt, nimmt die Natur sich zurück, was er sich angeeignet hatte, um seine Eitelkeit zu befriedigen.

Man might carve his identification mark on the earth but, once he ceases to be vigilant, Nature will take back what man had once achieved to please his vanity. »

It seems to me that, in every culture, I come across a chapter headed 'Wisdom.' And then I know exactly what is going to follow: 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.

Self-obsession, that treacherous time waster.

After all, would the world really miss this fatuous little suppository, with his preening self-confidence and emetic cuteness?

El orgullo es como un caramelo que se acaba pronto.

I abhor the human stupidity and vanity that takes pride in forcing tigers, lions, and leopards to sit nicely side by side. It reminds me of the government choreography that displays brightly garbed minorities in a parade, minorities granted a crumb of political autonomy in exchange for providing an optical simulation of cultural diversity in their country of residence. But wild animals (as opposed to humans) form groups according to species to enjoy specific benefits.

My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition.

What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?

I used to be prettier than I am, but I think I look better now. I was a pretty boy. Particularly in my early movies. I don't like looking at them so much. There's a sort of pretty thing about me.

It was June 1980. I was standing in front of a full-length mirror studying my body. What I saw didn't please me. My face was full of deep wrinkles and lines, while the top of my forehead sported hairless patches of skin; vacant and deathly white chunks of scalp that, I realized with a certain amount of terror, could no longer be camouflaged by deft parting and combing. It was very depressing.

Bastards have pissed me off," Reed snarled, out of breath, as he backed into the open armory door. "They hit me in the face." Lang grabbed Reed's jaw, turned his face toward him. "It's just a scratch." It's just my fucking face ," Reed sputtered. "It needs to look good on a book jacket when I write my memoirs someday.

Jesus, would you look at him. Hair too long and too blond. Eyes too sexy and too blue. Body too buff, ego in danger of liftoff. Standing there in his tight fitted jeans, painted-on T-shirt, and snakeskin boots, he looked like God's guilty gift. Trouble was, he knew it.

Maar wij ongelovigen, wij sterven met onze decors, te vermoeid om onszelf in de luren te leggen door de pracht en praal die beloofd is aan ons kadaver...

If every man who passed an unjust judgment on his fellow should be condemned, how many judges would be found so vain and foolish as to review and condemn their Maker's work?

Everything—absolutely everything—that comes into existence will pass away.

Most men are a confusion of half-truths and vanity, of something lost and never completed.