J. K. Rowling Quotes

Pull a string, a puppet moves ... each man must realize that it can all disappear very quickly: the cat, the woman, the job, the front tire, the bed, the walls, the room; all our necessities including love, rest on foundations of sand - and any given cause, no matter how unrelated: the death of a boy in Hong Kong or a blizzard in Omaha ... can serve as your undoing. all your chinaware crashing to the kitchen floor, your girl will enter and you'll be standing, drunk, in the center of it and she'll ask: my god, what's the matter? and you'll answer: I don't know, I don't know.

Unless you are here: this garden refuses to exist. Pink dragonflies fall from the air and become scorpions scratching blood out of rocks. The rainbows that dangle upon this mist: shatter. Like the smile of a child separated from his mother’s milk for the very first time. --from poem Blood and Blossoms

Become dust - and they will throw thee in the air; Become stone - and they will throw thee on glass.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

This world's a bubble.

If success is rare and slow, everybody knows how quick and easy ruin is.

This life of ours...human life is like a flower gloriously blooming in a meadow: along comes a goat, eats it up---no more flower.

Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam ... and after a while they will fall to dust and rain; or else we will tear them down with impatient hands; and hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

Nothing is written stone, child. Even if it were, the stones can be shattered

Everything that comes together falls apart.

What I've been thinking about recently is the idea of finite and fragility. Either we're acknowledging that our lives here are finite, this moment is finite, and that this whole world is fragile, or we're not, but it is really happening and that is really true.

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

Sometimes it seemed to him that his life was delicate as a dandelion. One little puff from any direction, and it was blown to bits.

The things that I loved were very frail. Very fragile. I didn't know that. I thought they were indestructible. They weren't.

Security is elusive. It's impossible. We all die. We all get old. We all get sick. People leave us. People change us. Nothing is secure.

All things human hang by a slender thread; and that which seemed to stand strong suddenly falls and sinks in ruins.

What is this world? A mere curl of smoke for the wind to scatter.

What ever truth drops on it eventually grinds to a powder.

Nature is one great big wood-chipper. Sooner or later, everything shoots out the other end in a spray of blood, bones and hair.

Personal disintegration remains always an imminent danger.

We're just a bubble in a boiling pot.

Even Castles made of sand, fall into the sea, eventually.

O what is life, if we must hold it thus as wind-blown sparks hold momentary fire?

I do have a sense of displacement as constant instability - the uninterrupted existence of everything that I love and care about is not guaranteed at all. I wait for catastrophes.

The foundations of our lives are far more fragile than we think. So we are severely shaken when life turns out to have a will of its own.