Quotes About Decay

Morality is a venereal disease. Its primary stage is called virtue; its secondary stage, boredom; its tertiary stage, syphilis.

Los Angeles. . . . It was some sort of organic ruin, an accident of architecture and brutal necessity. The iridescence was somehow almost legible, suggesting a calligraphy of exposed bone, transparencies, experimental skin grafts. The blood of Los Angeles was a red neon wash, a kind of sea of autistic traffic lights.

Ben ters yönde dönen ve dünyan?n tersine giden ?eylerden korkmam, etrafta hüküm süren çöküntüyü ve her ?eyin eskiyip y?pranmaktaki inad?n? de?i?tirir bu, demek istedi?im anla??ld?ysa e?er.

The flesh was falling from the bones of those I loved, and all the mountain flowers were crushed and broken.

The past is falling to pieces like the beggar with his clown-clothes . . .

Evey day, there is less of me. Today I am thoughts without words. Tomorrow I will be a body without thoughts. And so it goes.

All of these teeth had once been in real, live people. They had talked and smiled and eaten and sang and cursed and prayed. They had brushed and flossed and died. In English class, we read poems about death, but here, right in front of me was a poem about death too.

What a world. People once made glass sculptures of decay, and they put these sculptures in museums. How strange and beautiful human beings are. And how fragile.

What a world, Sadie thought. People once made glass sculptures of decay, and they put these sculptures in museums. How strange and beautiful human beings are. And how fragile.

Fundamentalists are panicked by the apparent disintegration of the family, the disappearance of certainty and the decay of morality. Fear leads them to ask, if we cannot trust the Bible, what can we trust?

The other side of the "sacred" is the sight of your beloved in the underworld, dripping with maggots.

And gradually we will rot like old ships or trees But keep Pain far from Me o Lord

Things inexorably get worse.

Have I been clear enough? The world is dying, is in fact already well on its way to being dead. Were it not, you never would never have wandered in here. You would never have occasion to think, what is this? An unoccupied bunker in which to shelter myself? What luck! And then have fallen into my trap. You instead would have a job in a small town as an accountant, say, or a data specialist.

She watched the glass, a plain woman, changing all to the delightful illusion of beauty. There was still time: for her ugliness was destined to bloom late, hidden first by the unformed gawkiness of youth, budding to plainness in young womanhood and now flowering to slow maturity in her early forties, it still awaited the subtle garishness which only decay could bring to fruition: a garishness which, when arrived at, would preclude all efforts at the mirror game.

When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them. They show us the state of our decay.

Once land gets in a state, once it begins to deteriorate, it is hard to reverse the process. Land falls sick just like people—that's the whole tragedy of our time.

The dead should not speak, for their words smell of rot

Autumn wins you best by this its mute Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

The house is eaten by cold. We hear its bones crack in the jaws of sub-zero.

There is a certain threshold, an intensity of sin and cynicism, beyond which no society can survive.…

Every Concatenate world faced biological problems as the habitat aged.

The ruins of the unsustainable are the 21st century's frontier.

Do you ever think about all the knowledge we pour into our brains and how soon they will turn into mush in the grave? I think about it.