Quotes About Decay

NaÅ¡e doba je epochou chaosu a rozkladu. VÅ¡e se stalo problematickým. Jak se to v takových stavech dÄ›je vždy, tla?í se nevÄ›domé obsahy na hranice vÄ›domí s cílem kompenzovat jeho nouzi. Stojí proto zato pe?livÄ› sledovat vÅ¡echny hrani?ní jevy, jakkoli temné se mohou zdát, aby v nich byly nalezeny zárodky možných nových Ã…â"¢ád?.

When we think of the unending growth and decay of life and civilizations, we cannot escape the impression of absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost a sense of something that lives and endures underneath the eternal flux. What we see is the blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains.

there is nothing under the moon, however fine, that is not subject to corruption.

words from a Davison Jeffers poem taped up on the refrigerator door. Here they are: There is no reason for amazement; surely one always knew that cultures decay, and life's end is death.

En sólo unos pocos años, cuando todo lo que perdurara de mí en esta tierra no fuera más que recuerdo y polvo, del monasterio no habría de quedar piedra sobre piedra.

The faint odour of rotting cheese suggested that sandwiches had been lost in the trackless wastes of paper and never found again.

If gold ruste, what shal iren do?

If gold rusts, what then can iron do?

It is false, this teaching of decay. —James McNeill Whistler

Meine Seele, meine Seele stinkt nach Brandewein. - Selbst das Geld geht in Verwesung über. Vergissmeinnicht. Wie ist dieses Welt so schön. Bruder, ich muss ein Regenfass voll greinen. Ich wollt unsre Nasen wären zwei Bouteillen und wir könnten sie uns einander in den Hals gießen.

At the Moor Wanderer in the black wind; quietly the dry reeds whisper In the stillness of the moor. In the gray sky A flock of wild birds follows; Slanting over gloomy waters. Turmoil. In decayed hut The spirit of putrescence flutters with black wings. Crippled birches in the autumn wind. Evening in deserted tavern. The way home is scented all around By the soft gloom of grazing herds; Apparition of the night; toads plunge from brown waters.

Returning home The shepherds found the sweet body Decayed in the thorn-bush. I am a shadow far from sombre villages. God's silence I drank from the spring in the grove. Cold metal enters upon my brow, Spiders seek out my heart. There is a light that goes out in my mouth. At night I found myself on a heath, Stiff with refuse and dust of stars. In the hazel-bush Crystalline angels sounded again.

I hated the garb, I hated the surroundings—the big hospital at the back, and that reek of cruelty, drunkenness, and filth, the cattle-market—where every other building was either a slaughter-house, a gin-palace, or a pawnbroker's shop, more than all I hated the gloomy jail opposite, where they sometimes hanged a man in public on a Monday morning.

All false art, all vain wisdom, lasts its time but finally destroys itself, and its highest culture is also the epoch of its decay.

Ah realise now thit death is usually a process, rather than an event. People generally die by degrees, incrementally. They rot away slowly in homes and hoespitals, or places like this.

me doy cuenta de que por lo general la muerte es un proceso, más que un suceso. Generalmente la gente se muere poco a poco, acumulativamente. Se pudren lentamente en residencias u hospitales, o sitios como éste

The renegade robots are now long dead, the metal ones rusted, the human ones bled.

We were slowly, but irrevocably, coming apart.

The vandalism time perpetuates on the human body.

All evil is good become cancerous.

Changelessness is decay. A paradox. There is no decay without a change for the worse. Changelessness is a change for the worse

Ambitious men will not wait and unscrupulous men will not hang back. By their every action they will hasten the decay of the worlds.

I wouldn't want [the people of Baleyworld] to live that long as a general thing. The pace of historical and intellectual advance would then become too slow. Those at the top would stay in power too long. Baleyworld would sink into conversation and decay - as your world has done.

Mr. Advocate, the rotten tree-trunk, until the very moment when the storm-blast breaks it in two, has all the appearance of might it ever had. The storm-blast whistles through the branches of the Empire even now. Listen with the ears of psychohistory, and you will hear the creaking.