Quotes About Decay

Tout ce temps, tous ces visages, tous ces cris de jouissance, ces étreintes sans âme au petit matin, quand la nuit n'est plus, le jour n'est pas encore, ton orgasme prend fin, et tes yeux se dessillent, ta chambre n'est qu'un bordel, Baudelaire est mort et, dans tes bras, il n'y a qu'une putain...

How absolute and omnipotent is the silence of the night! And yet the stillness seems almost audible. From all the measureless depths of air around us comes a half sound, a half whisper, as if we could hear the crumbling and falling away of the earth and all created things in the great miracle of nature?decay and reproduction?ever beginning, never ending?the gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great hour-glass of Time.

Death, lonely death, Beneath the withered leaves.

What matters most has an ultimate metallic quality of death. The chasuble and the wagon wheel, the razor and the prickly beards of shepherds, the bare moon, a fly, humid cupboards, rubble piles, the images of saints covered in lace, quicklime, and the wounding edges of the rooflines and watchtowers.

For Earth is but a tombstone

Nothing grows among its pinnacles; there is no shade except under great toadstools of sandstone whose bases have been eaten to the shape of wine glasses by the wind. Everything is flaking, cracking, disintegrating, wearing away in the long, inperceptible weather of time. The ash of ancient volcanic outbursts still sterilizes its soil, and its colors in that waste are the colors that flame in the lonely sunsets on dead planets.

The room smelled of stale leather and genteel decay, like an old woman waiting patiently for the lover who had jilted her to return after sixty years.

That's the worst part about the walking dead... the stains.

But a sick feeling had settled into me, as I looked on this darkling house, with all of its stinking lust and fear, all of its horrid hate worn openly upon it to my Sight, like a mantle of flayed human skin on the shoulders of a pretty girl with gorgeous hair, luscious lips, sunken eyes, and rotting teeth. It repulsed me and it made me afraid.

Sunset Point was one of those boils festering on the face of the planet: a subdivision.

They say civilization is a thin veneer over barbarism. Chicago stood waiting for the first tearing sound.

Things fall apart.

Havana vanities come to dust in Miami.

Jacob's room is the place entropy goes to die.

All of us who are living are dying. The only ones not dying are the dead. To live was to be haunted by the inevitability of one's own decay, and to be dead was to be haunted by the memory of living.

To live was to be haunted by the inevitability of one's own decay, and to be dead was to be haunted by the memory of living.

It is a know fact that almost all revolutions have been the work, not of the common people, but of the aristocracy, and especially of the decayed part of the aristocracy.

Psalm 102:25-27 says that, although the physical universe undergoes decay and will perish, God remains the same: In the

Trivial personalities decomposing in the eternity of print.

I Feel Sorry for the Garden No one is thinking about the flowers No one is thinking about the fish No one wants to believe that the garden is dying that the garden's heart has swollen under the sun that the garden is slowly forgetting its green moments …

And the rest is rust and stardust.

aromas. Above, a ceiling of parched wood dropped dust

Now the leaves are falling fast, Nurse's flowers will not last, Nurses to their graves are gone, But the prams go rolling on.

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth.