Thomas Babington Macaulay Quotes

When something hasn't been around much for a while, and one example of it turns up and catches people's eyes, they go looking for more like it - until they get tired of it again.

The idol of today pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of tomorrow.

With the Internet, you can be easily exposed and disposed. You can create some viral video, the biggest thing ever, and then four weeks later, no one remembers your name.

History is a great dust heap.

History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription molders from the tablet: the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?

I think I'm just a summer fling that people will soon forget.

When you stop playing for a while, people tend to forget about you.

I'm the flavor of the month.

But each day brings its petty dust Our soon-chok'd souls to fill, And we forget because we must, And not because we will.

People will forget me pretty quick.

It doesn't matter how popular an actor you are: nobody will remember you forever.

You have to work to be relevant. If you don't, then people will forget, and the studios won't want you because they won't remember the last thing you did that made money.

A trend is exactly that, and it's going to disappear.

People are always jumping at what's new - who's the next person, who's the hottest thing, or whatever - so to be able to grasp the attention of everybody is difficult.

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

Fads are born to die.

Tomorrow I too – this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself – yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks these streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?” And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.

Before we are forgotten, we will be turned into kitsch. Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion.

But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

Your death and my death are mainly of importance to ourselves. The black plumes will be stripped off our hearses within the hour; tears will dry, hurt hearts close again, our graves grow level with the church-yard, and although we are away, the world wags on. It does not miss us; and those who are near us, when the first strangeness of vacancy wears off, will not miss us much either.

Man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

One day I'll be old, dead, forgotten. And at this very moment, while I'm sitting here thinking these things, a man in a dingy hotel room is thinking, "I will always be here."

All that I've lived I've forgotten, as if I'd vaguely heard it. All that I'll be reminds me of nothing, as if I'd lived and forgotten it.

You'll forget it when you're dead, and so will I. When I'm dead, I'm going to forget everything–and I advise you to do the same.