Chuck Palahniuk Quotes

Time is the devourer of all things.

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

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.

Flowers are one of the few things we buy, bring home, watch die, and we don't ask for our money back.

All things fade and quickly turn to myth.

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

Everything is temporary. Everything is bound to end.

All things are only transitory.

The first thing you have to do is accept that decay sets in and there's nothing you can do about it.

Time destroys everything.

Time is not kind to everything.

Oh, how swiftly the glory of the world passes away!

All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest.

Time is death.

The Flower that once has blown forever dies.

How terrible a thing time is.

Everything is created to be annihilated.

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

Someday no one will remember that she ever existed, I wrote in my notebook, and then, or that I did. Because memories fall apart, too. And then you're left with nothing, left not even with a ghost but with its shadow. In the beginning, she had haunted me, haunted my dreams, but even now, just weeks later, she was slipping away, falling apart in my memory and everyone else's, dying again.

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

To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?

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.

We are swimming on the face of time and all else has drowned, is drowning, or will drown.

All things are the same, familiar in enterprise, momentary in endurance, coarse in substance. All things now are as they were in the day of those whom we have buried.