Robinson Jeffers Quotes

Romance can end, but I don't think art really ends, as romantic as that might sound.

I want to create a foundation, like a maison, in my home in the Marais. I am going to leave everything there. I am only passing through. I'm not a proprietor of anything, even if I have homes and things.

I will say that art may well be the only thing that lasts, so I guess it's worth trying.

Art is eternal, but life is short.

The human race is plainly nothing in eternity, but to us, in time, it is everything and ought not to die.

Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, song passes not away.

I always think that in some way, art is the best tool we have to prepare for death. It's like a sculpture that you can interpret differently every time you look at it.

If we one day cease to exist, what will be remarkable is that we were ever here at all.

We are tiny flames, Helikaon, and we flicker alone in the great dark for no more than a heartbeat. When we strive for wealth, glory and fame, it is meaningless. The nations we fight for will one day cease to be. Even the mountains we gaze upon will crumble to dust. To truly live we must yearn for that which does not die.

Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.

Life is short and art is long.

Here we are, arguably the most intelligent being that's ever walked planet Earth, with this extraordinary brain ... and yet we're destroying the only home we have.

I have erected amonument more lasting than bronze.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly .

He knows that after him everything will continue on much as before, except that there will be a minuscule absence, a barely detective gap in the so-called grand scheme, one unit fewer now. Or not even that, not even an empty space where he once was, for all will rush immediately to fill that vacuum. Pft. Gone. Recollections of him will remain in the minds of others for a while, but presently those others too will die and his few relics with them. And then all will be dark.

Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!

Get up, and set your shoulder to the wheel - How long is this life for? As you have come into this world, leave some mark behind. Otherwise, where is the difference between you and the trees and stones? They too come into existence, decay and die.

Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them, for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war, or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash - the triumphs, the frauds, the treasures and the fakes. A fact of life: we're going to die. "Be of good heart," cry the dead artists out of the living past. "Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it? Go on singing." Maybe a man's name doesn't matter all that much.

Dancers come and go in the twinkling of an eye, but the dance lives on.

Metal rusts, music lasts forever.

But in Hiroshima, some people were wiped clean away, leaving only a wristwatch or a diary page. So no matter that I have inhibitions to fill all my pockets, I keep trying, hoping that one day I'll write a poem I can be proud to let sit in a museum exhibit as the only proof I existed.

Life doesn't last, art doesn't last

The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.