Quotes About Endings

but that is the way of things, with cities as with life, for one moment we are pottering about our errands as usual and the next we are dying, and our eternally impending ending does not put a stop to our transient beginnings and middles until the instant when it does. Saeed

but that is the way of things, with cities as with life, for one moment we are pottering about our errands as usual and the next we are dying, and our eternally impending ending does not put a stop to our transient beginnings and middles until the instant when it does.

It's easy to make your life into stories. But it's harder to sustain real memories…The difference between a story and a real memory, the real experience has a smell and is dirty and is not wrapped up in simple endings. The real memories are what effects me now. Things can appear that you don't want to see, where you're not safe, and even if you don't actually unleash the memories, the effect is there. It's in your body.

All those stories must have ended this same way, with someone tired going home from a field full of death, but no one ever sang this part.

All those stories must have ended this same way, with someone tired going home from a field full of death, but no one ever sang this part. Borys

All true stories begin and end in a cemetery.

Poets are interested primarily in death and commas.

however good it is, some love isn't meant to be for ever.

We want to control our deaths, our goodbye to the world, and if we can't control is, we can at least control how we leave it behind.

We don't often remember how we meet, we mostly remember how we part.

It's nice to be able to retire. Comforting." "You think so?" he said. "Isn't it?" "No," he said. "Endings are never nice.

I fear dying in the middle of a book. It would be so annoying to write 80,000 words and not get to the end. I'm phobic about it. So when I'm writing a book I leave messages all over the house for people to know how the story ends, and then someone can finish it for me.

She had learned the lesson of renunciation and was as familiar with the wreck of each day's wishes as with the diurnal setting of the sun.

Each is a cold announcement of dead ends, suns that will refuse to stand, but flee south, ever south, leaving us to north-without-end.

No book can be really complete in this life; it has to end where the author's time and understanding end. There is always something left unsaid. I look forward to the life to come as the unending last chapter of all the good books I have ever read.

This, I suspect, is the territory that lies just ahead and around the curve of today. A place where loss grows more familiar, where joy is harmonized by sorrow, where endings outnumber beginnings, and where kindness becomes a sacrament.

Whether or not [a] story has a happy ending depends, of course, on who is reading it. Whether you are a wolf or a girl. A girl or a monster or both. Not everyone in a story gets a happy ending. Not everyone who reads a story feels the same way about how it ends. And if you go back to the beginning and read it again, you may discover it isn't the same story you thought you'd read. Stories shift their shape.

There are so many little dyings How do we know which one of them is death?

There are so many little dyings that it doesn't matter which of them is death.

Nothing's perfect. Especially not me. I'm just like you were. Human. Hanging on. Holding out for a happy ending. But knowing it ends badly. And then being surprised by joy.

Mallory's breath shuddered. "Oh, Claire. Does happily ever after even exist anymore?

No início você briga, chora, faz drama mexicano. Então percebe que é cansativo demais manter esse jeito de levar as coisas. Acostuma-se… Não que pare de doer, mas que cai no seu entendimento que às vezes perdemos algo e não há solução. No fim você coloca um sorriso no rosto e finge que é sincero, até que a vida o faça realmente ser. Talvez os amores eternos sejam amenos e os intensos, passageiros. É isso.

What do you know about yourself? What are your stories? The ones you tell yourself, and the ones told by others. All of us begin somewhere. Though I suppose the truth is that we begin more than once; we begin many times. Over and over, we start our own tales, compose our own stories, whether our lives are short or long. Until at last all our beginnings come down to just one end, and the tale of who we are is done.

No matter how much we cling to hope our stories seldom end as we expect.