Daphne du Maurier Quotes

Life is short, and, once somebody is gone, they're gone.

Life is like a fire. Flames which the passer-by forgets. Ashes which the wind scatters. A man lived.

Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.

Time goes, you say? Ah, no! alas, time stays, we go.

My work is about my life as an event, and I find myself to be very temporal, transient.

I know that everything comes to an end. Everything is a phase.

Life doesn't last; art doesn't last. It doesn't matter.

Things pass us by. Nobody can catch them. That's the way we live our lives.

Nothing lasts forever but we always try, and I just can't help but wonder why we let it pass us by

Consider that this day ne'er dawns again.

She would fain have caught at the skirts of that departing time, and prayed it to return, and give her back what she had too little valued while it was yet in her possession. What a vain show Life seemed! How unsubstantial, and flickering, and flitting! It was as if from some aerial belfry, high up above the stir and jar of the earth, there was a bell continually tolling, ‘All are shadows!—all are passing!—all is past!

Today's today. Tomorrow we may be ourselves gone down the drain of Eternity.

The morning Sunne never lasts a day.

The last moments slipped by, one by one, irretrievable.

Life is a frail moth flying Caught in the web of the years that pass.

Your body is like a dew-drop on the morning grass, your life is as brief as a flash of lightning. Momentary and vain, it is lost in a moment.

Everything we do is tinged with the knowledge that this may be the last time that we will do this, and that makes what we're doing incredibly sweet.

In the end, the wind takes everything, doesn't it? And why not? Why other? If the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.

Life is only a flicker of melted ice.

A man, when he burns, leaves only a handful of ashes. No woman can hold him. The wind must blow him away.

Time wastes too fast : every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity Life follows my pen ; the days and hours of it, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more -- every thing presses on -- whilst thou are twisting that lock, -- see! it grows grey ; and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make!

We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.