Jodi Picoult Quotes

There is no complete life. There are only fragments. We are born to have nothing, to have it pour through our hands. And yet, this pouring, this flood of encounters, struggles, dreams...

Loveliest of lovely things are they on earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Flowers are without hope. Because hope is tomorrow and flowers have no tomorrow.

All lovely things will have an ending, All lovely things will fade and die; And youth, that's now so bravely spending, Will beg a penny by and by.

Love built on beauty, soon as beauty, dies.

Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.

Everything is fleeting and passing and impermanent in life. Relationships, people, our finite physical forms... We let go of our childhoods, we let go of different parts of our body, we lose elasticity in our skin, and we lose hair and we lose teeth.

I've seen people pass away. I've seen how fragile life is.

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.

Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The essence of what makes life beautiful is the fact that it can go away.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is even in the grave, And thou must die.

Because beautiful things never last. Not roses nor snow… And not fireworks, either

Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.

The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies.

Love is like a flower, even the most beautiful kind dies.

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

The flowers of life are but illusions. How many fade away and leave no trace.

I can see the beauty of glass objects fully at the moment when they slip from my hand

Fall leaves are brilliant with gold and red. You can cup them in your hand and wonder at them, be amazed at their uniqueness and glory. But eventually they are gone, brown, crumbling, scattered on the wind. But the tree remains. The tree is what is important. The tree lives on. That was a difficult knowledge to bear, and an even more difficult life to live. Of course, being the leaf wasn't exactly desirable either.

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