Quotes About Permanence

Change is the nursery Of musicke, joy, life, and eternity. (Elegie III: Change)

If there are no permanent standards, there is no criticism possible.

The nature o' things doesn't change, though it seems as if one's own life was nothing but change.

The flowers of life are but illusions. How many fade away and leave no trace.

That's the thing about life; everything feels so permanent, but you can disappear in an instant.

You know what freaks me out? Having your personal life live-tweeted so that everyone can make fun of you forever.

Everything changes in my life, and the world stays the same.

You are permanent, but this life is not.

Long life, and short, are by death made all one; for there is no long, nor short, to things that are no more.

I know now that everything I write, I'm going to put out, and I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life.

You can destroy a factory, and they'll build another. But once you destroy a life, that's it. You never get that person back.

The only consent hinge in life is that everyhin is changing. And that's a little scary, but it means that hints can't be bad or hard forever.

Immortality is like trying to carve your initials in a block of ice in the middle of July.

Somehow, stars have a lot of class if they are done right; they never have a shelf life.

If one lived for ever the joys of life would inevitably in the end lose their savour. As it is, they remain perennially fresh.

What I've learned during my life is that the near future is 90% identical to the present - if you buy a new car today, it'll probably still be on the road in 2022.

Edward George Bulwer Lytton

Colors fade, temples crumble, empires fall, but wise words endure.

The idea of trying to create things that last - forever knowledge - has guided my work for a long time now.

The sequoias belong to the silences of the milleniums. Many of them have seen a hundred human generations rise, give off their little clamors and perish. They seem indeed to be forms of immortality standing here amoing the transitory shapes of time.

Now he [Lincoln] belongs to the ages.

Love does not knock; it enters silently and becomes not only difficult to expel, but even that stays impossible too.

When does a man die? When he is hit by a bullet? No! When he suffers a disease? No! When he ate a soup made out of a poisonous mushroom? No! A man dies when he is forgotten!

Is there anything that will not decay?