Quotes About Decay

Everything that's organized is racing toward being disorganized. It's nature's highest law.

It's art that pushes against psychological and social expectations, that tries to transform decay into something generative, that is replicative in a baroque way, that isn't about progress, and wants to - as Walt Whitman put it - 'contain multitudes.'

Sometimes I think life's nothin' but sittin' around watchin' pretty go bad.

She seemed to belong to that pagan, primitive kingdom of birds and forests where everything was infinitely abundant, wild, blooming, and royal in its perpetual decay, death, and rebirth; illicit and clashing with the human world.

There was romance of a kind in the shabby

To jedna z tych chwil, kiedy barwy siÄ™ rozpadajÄ…, a ?ycie szarzeje w bezsilnych dÅ'oniach. Mistyczny odpÅ'yw. Bezd?wiÄ™czna cezura miÄ™dzy oddechami. UkÄ…szenie czasu, który powoli po?era serce.

Laikas - tai silpnutis mirties ekstraktas, kuris iš l?to skverbiasi ? mus kaip nestiprus narkotikas. Iš pradži? jis gaivina, ir mes net pradedame tik?ti, kad esame nemirtingi, bet lašas po lašo, diena po dienos jis tampa vienu lašu, viena diena stipresnis ir pavirsta r?gštimi, drums?ian?ia ir nuodijan?ia m?s? krauj?.

He had collapsed like a rotten tree.

I nod and wonder what to say to encourage him. His lips have fallen away, his mouth has become larger, his teeth stick out and look as though they were made of chalk. The flesh melts, the forehead bulges more prominently, the cheekbones protrude. The skeleton is working itself through. The eyes are already sunken in. In a couple of hours it will be over.

I think Rome at its worst had nothing on Chicago during those lurid days.

He has no doubts, there is nothing you can say to sway him, to give him hope or trust. He is a miserable animal whose body decays, who will die, who will pass into dust and oblivion, disappear forever not only in this world but in all the possible dimensions of the universe, whose life serves no conceivable purpose, who may as well not have been born, and so on and so forth.

Sex is of the body, and the body is of death.

The real world is simply too terrible to admit; it tells man that he is a small, trembling animal who will decay and die.

I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.

Human relations never seem to stand completely still. This apple, for instance. It might ripen into something better than it now was, or, unromantically, it might rot away in his pocket.

All men die in solitude; all values are degraded in a state of misery: that is what Shakespeare tells me

The worst thing you can be in this job is partial, invested. You just have to get good at turning that off. You have to see the bodies as bodies, not as people. They were people once, of course, fuelled by food and water, driven by electrical impulses. But then, for whatever reason, the power got turned off. The lights went out. They were transformed into meat.

Then worms shall tryThat long preserved virginity,And your quaint honor turn to dust,And into ashes all my lust.The grave's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace.

Just like a wine glass breaking, or a car rusting, the entropy of a closed system will always increase with time.

That's Manhattan today—all the money goes up top, while the infrastructure wastes away from neglect. The famous skyline is a cheap trick now, a sleight-of-hand to draw your eye from the truth, as illusory as a bodybuilder with osteoporosis.

On the soft bed of luxury many kingdoms have expired.

But that was how it had to go, for the death of a rotten tree is always rapid: one violent shake and over it goes. Its broad canopy, which for many years rose up in its place in the forest, has suddenly vanished. For a while there is a space in the forest cover, but soon the space is filled by new growth, as if nothing had happened.

Na majestade da morte, no respeito para com os mortos... E a morte é nada mais do que a morte. E o morto é apenas um cadáver frio. Não importa onde jaz onde seus ossos se transformam em pó.

Overgrown, crumbling, tilted, full of cracks, returning to the soil. Paint fell from boards, plaster from walls. Unsupervised, matter was collapsing under its own weight.