Quotes About Decay

The house was left; the house was deserted. It was left like a shell on a sandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left it.

Down there among the roots where the flowers decayed, gusts of dead smells were wafted; drops formed on the bloated sides of swollen things. The skin of rotten fruit broke, and matter oozed too thick to run.

Now glancing this side, that side, they looked deeper, beneath the flowers, down the dark avenues into the unlit world where the leaf rots and the flower has fallen.

toda a pompa é construída sobre a corrupção; como o esqueleto jaz por baixo da carne; como nós, que dançamos e cantamos na superfície, ficaremos embaixo; como o veludo púrpura se transforma em pó; como o anel (aqui Orlando, inclinando sua lanterna, apanharia um anel de ouro faltando uma pedra que rolara para um canto) perdia seu rubi e como o olho, que fora tão radiante, deixara de brilhar.

acolo, de-a curmeziÈ™ul golfului È™i printre dune, z?cea prietenia lui, p?strîndu-È™i întreaga vitalitate È™i realitate, asemenea cadavrului unui tîn?r care ar fi r?mas îngropat un secol în turb?, conservîndu-È™i roÈ™eaÈ›a proasp?t? a buzelor.

I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust

For we die every day; oblivion thrives Not on dry thighbones but on blood-ripe lives, And our best yesterdays are now foul piles Of crumpled names, phone numbers and foxed files.

Average reality begins to rot and stink as soon as the act of individual creation ceases to animate a subjectively perceived texture.

Szétesése fokozatosan történt, és mindegyik fokozata gyötrelmesebb volt az elÅ'zÅ'nél; az emberi agy ugyanis a legjobb kínzókamra bír lenni mindazok közül, melyeket kieszelt, létrehozott és használt évek millióin át, földek millióiban, üvöltÅ' teremtmények millióin.

I have nothing but very sad associations with the Old and rotting World. No colored ads in your magazines will change the situation.' 'My

Moth holes had appeared in the plush of matrimonial comfort.

This story is about stink, after all, a story about rot, about how life grows out of the most fetid-smelling places. I leaned into the wall of the coiled cabin, snail, the body curled in upon itself, spine coiled, a snake lying in wait.

This story is about stink, after all, a story about rot, about how life grows out of the most fetid-smelling places.

Ramrod has an empire. They have not had it very long yet already it is shabby and disreputable. Everyday the faggots and their friends can see, hear, and feel Ramrod's empire disintegrating as the men lose more and more things they never owned in the first place.

But I neglected to tell him about the Age of Shit. I didn't tell him about the shape of the age to come, which is becoming clearer and clearer to him. War will be all, devouring all, W. says. Human beings will be like rats, like vermin. And the skies will burn, W. says. He can see them burning.

Love's dream, too, knows decay; Awhile the soul-harp's wildly thrilling strain Pours out those notes we ne'er forget again, And the deep fountains of the heart burst forth As if to gladden every spot of earth; But O! it will not stay.

When we see an old tree dying Slowly in the solemn wood, To decay the proud strength yielding That a century has stood, We look on, and sadly wonder At the mighty wreck of time, As its potent finger traces Sure destruction, line by line.

Ya?ay?p bitirdi?i her günün, tutulmaz bir ku? olup uçtu?una, yava? yava? gözden silinip bir küçük kara noktaya dönü?tü?üne karar verdi.

El hombre trabaja para su propia destrucción

But, perhaps, I should have known then, I should have known that night, standing in the kitchen, that foul meat in the air- looking back on it now, I see that it was the end and the beginning of something more than dinner. More than ruined appetite, a postponed meal, a marriage strained, a freezer unplugged. I could smell the death between them.

It's impossible to imagine my mother like that. I cannot imagine her softened, thawed, decayed, becoming sweeter as she spoils. I imagine her trapped in a mirror instead. A permanent image of her locked into a rectangle of hard brightness, open-eyed.

Turn your attention to all that is dying and decaying. Look at dead leaves, a lifeless tree, a dead animal. Regard anything that is slowly returning to its constituent elements. Smell the pungent odor of decay. Inhale the effluvium of the dissolution process. The object of this exercise is to know the Earth, not just in its telluric aspect (flower bearing soil), but also in its chthonic aspect. Let death talk to you.

ground up into dingy gray, flushed down into the sewer in a mess of shit and piss. Something goes hot and liquid behind his eyes.

On their old street, each house is a different drab shade: tan, dirty cream, the washed-out gray of tattered laundry: as if all the color has leached away since his childhood. Slope shouldered, listing slightly to one side, they resemble old ladies, their clothing grown shabby and loose.