Quotes About Decay

Non c'è niente che sappia di morte, - continuò, - più del sole d'estate, della gran luce, della natura esuberante. Tu fiuti l'aria e senti il bosco, e ti accorgi che piante e bestie se ne infischiano di te. Tutto vive e si macera in se stesso. La natura è la morte...

The skeleton is the death: it's in our body... (Le squelette, c'est la mort : - Il est dans notre corps...)

The skeleton, it's the death: It's in our body. (Le squelette, c'est la mort : Il est dans notre corps)

We don't build the ruins. Our soul is in hate. (On ne construit des ruines. - Notre âme est dans la haine.)

Around and around the house the leaves fall thick—but never fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep.

A narrow winding street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked ill.

and a little blear-eyed, weazen-faced, ancient man came creeping out. He was of a remote fashion, and dusty, like the rest of the furniture; he was dressed in a decayed suit of black; with breeches garnished at the knees with rusty wisps of ribbon, the very paupers of shoestrings; on the lower portion of his spindle legs were dingy worsted stockings of the same colour. He looked as if he had been put away and forgotten half a century before,

The worm does not his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame.

By the wilderness of casks that I had walked on long ago, and on which the rain of years had fallen since, rotting them in many places, and leaving miniature swamps and pools of water upon those that stood on end, I made my way to the ruined garden. I went all round it; round by the corner where Herbert and I had fought our battle; round by the paths where Estella and I had walked. So cold, so lonely, so dreary all!

Within a quarter of an hour we came to Miss Havisham's house, which was of old brick, and dismal, and had a great many iron bars to it. Some of the windows had been walled up; of those that remained, all the lower were rustily barred. There was a courtyard in front, and that was barred;

Cunning, ferocity, and drunkenness in all its stages, were there, in their strongest aspects; and women: some with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness, almost fading as you looked: others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime: some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of life: formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture.

They offer penetrating insights into the decay of industrial society, a place where big capitalism has lost all sense of creativity but retains all of its destructive capacities

I was matter, like everything else. I could feel the slow decay of my body, the absolute certainty of death. Every heartbeat spelt out a new proof of mortality. Every moment was a premature burial.

All that it took to destroy something, here, was to fail to keep track of it.

The earth is mostly just a boneyard. But pretty in the sunlight. – Larry McMurtry

Autumn teaches us that fruition is also death; that ripeness is a form of decay. The willows, having stood for so long near water, begin to rust. Leaves are verbs that conjugate the seasons.

La mayoría de los suicidas morían desaliñados y sucios, con costras de mugre en la espalda, los dientes cariados al extremo de la podredumbre, las uñas largas y sucias, hongos en la piel, lagañosos. La muerte arribaba a ellos mucho antes de colgarse de los barrotes o de rebanarse la carótida con un trozo de azulejo.

O de Ralph Waldo Emerson: «The end of the human race will be that it will eventually die of civilization». «El fin de la raza humana será que —eventualmente— morirá de civilización.»

In the medieval tradition, Beksinski seems to believe art to be a forewarning about the fragility of the flesh– whatever pleasures we know are doomed to perish– thus, his paintings manage to evoke at once the process of decay and the ongoing struggle for life. They hold within them a secret poetry, stained with blood and rust.

The room smelled milky, of vanilla and almond, from the breakdown of chemical compounds in the old paper.

La mosca que debía estar muerta y el perro que debía estar muerto en la casa que debía estar muerta y la novia que moriría pronto.

En la literatura la salud tiene un concepto distinto al tradicional. Para que una obra posea cierta salud espiritual el escritor tendria que estar podrido por dentro.

En algún punto de la evolución el esperma podrido, el mas corrupto entró por la puerta trasera del óvulo. Y todo se fue al carajo.

Il mondo intero era ridotto a polvere e cenere; e la mia anima era nelle stesse condizioni.