Quotes About Eternity

Death is not a lover. Oh yes he is.

Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night.

Death is not a lover.

He is dancing, dancing. He says he'll never die.

makes its home and therefore we can never be done with the telling. Of the telling there is no end. And whether in Caborca or in Huisiachepic or in whatever other place by whatever other name or by no name at all I say again all tales are one. Rightly heard all tales are one.

He never sleeps. He says that he will never die.

Pues cada fuego es todos los fuegos, el primer fuego y el último que habrá nunca.

One of the things I realized was that the universe had been evolving for countless billions of years

The small sands in that waste was all there was for the wind to move and it moved with a constant migratory seething upon itself. As if in its ultimate granulation the world sought some stay against its own eternal wheeling.

Borman looked around. Somewhere out here the last ivorybill died. Thirty years ago probably. I still listen for them. What sense does that make? They're gone forever. I didnt know you were a bird watcher. I'm not. I'm a forever watcher. Forever is a long time.

That's pretty much gone. I know that to be female is an older thing even than to be human. I want to be as old as I can be.

for a thing once set in motion has no ending in this world until the last witness has passed

He had been shot through the head with a .32 caliber pistol and he was twenty-one years old forever.

Schopenhauer says somewhere that if the entire universe should vanish the only thing left would be music.

Well. Nothin's forever. Some things are. Yeah. Some things are.

Nobody loves only once.

Words are immortal - Elinor

Neither Goyl nor men lived long enough to understand that yesterday was born of tomorrow, just as tomorrow was born of yesterday.

Together. Even in death. His fingers tightened their grip around her hand. A double statue of silver. Romantic. What would their faces show? Fear? Or love?

What else but death could you hope to reap when you gave your heart to a mortal?

How could it be true that [he] was dead, and how would it feel to have him dead in her heart forever?

The Weaver wove herself from the thread of night, hair of moonlight, skin of stars. So old. Without beginning or end.

Perhaps it's true that death is only the beginning of a new story, but no one has ever read the book in which it's written.

Words are immortal – until someone comes along and burns them.