Quotes About Fate

and a thousand other stories waiting to unfold, dependent on the births of children, the movement of people in the streets, the songs of birds at certain moments, the precise position of chairs, the wind.

They have been trapped by their own inventiveness and audacity. And they must pay with their lives.

In a world of fixed future, there can be no right or wrong. Right an wrong demand freedom of choice, but if each action is already chosen, there can be no freedom of choice.

The ending is nearer than you think, and it is already written. All that we have left to choose is the correct moment to begin.

You see, Doctor, God didn't kill that little girl. Fate didn't butcher her and destiny didn't feed her to those dogs. If God saw what any of us did that night he didn't seem to mind. From then on I knew... God doesn't make the world this way. We do.

There is no coincidence. Only the illusion of coincidence.

Adrian Veidt: I did the right thing, didn't I? It all worked out in the end. Dr. Manhattan: 'In the end'? Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.

Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves; go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.

A world grows up around me. Am I shaping it, or do its predetermined contours guide my hand?

Truly, whoever we are, wherever we reside, we exist upon the whim of murderers.

It doesn't matter how "successful" each of us is in life. We're all doomed to die. Why can't anyone else see that?

All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.

Nor does anyone know what the purpose is in anything, or why things happen in the way they do. It don't seem fair when you see some of them mean buggers living to a ripe old age and here's your lovely daughter took so soon. All I can tell you is what I believe. There's justice up above the street, my dear.

Do you understand how I have loved you? You'd have all been dead in a year or two from liver failure, men, or childbirth. Dead. Forgotten. I have saved you. Do you understand that? I have made you safe from time, and we are wed in legend, inextricable within eternity.

Without me, things would have been different. If the fat man hadn't crushed the watch, if I hadn't left it in the test chamber. . . Am I to blame, then? Or the fat man? Or my father, for choosing my career? Which of us is responsible? Who makes the world?

Everything is made of stories. They've all happened before, in similar circumstances. It's like a circle. It goes round and round and round.

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.

See, as it happens, I've got a couple of front row tickets for the end of the universe. I thought it'd be best to use them now. I mean, you never know... There may not be a second performance.

There is no point in imagining that if one had been there, one could have prevented a thing that had happened only because it had not been prevented

If you don't see me in five minutes, then I've probably died a brave and heroic death.

If anyone stops us, as long as we mumble something pretentious about the glory of death, we should be fine.

I wish I would have known you earlier so I could love you longer. - Derek Miles

It seems to me that no matter whether you marry, settle down or live with a bird or not, certain ones simply have your number on them, like bombs in the war; and even if you don't happen to like them all that much there's nothing you can do about it — unless you're prepared to spend a lifetime arguing fate out of existence, which you could probably do if you tried but I'm not the type. —Crust on Its Uppers, p. 87

because the fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world, in spite of History.