Arthur Balfour Quotes

Everything dies, from the smallest blade of grass to the biggest galaxy.

Fame is a vapor; popularity an accident; the only earthly certainty is oblivion.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again.

If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.

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.

Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie, Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and-sans End!

The mortality of all inanimate things is terrible to me, but that of books most of all.

As Beckett said, it's not enough to die, one has to be forgotten as well.

The dead keep their secrets, and in a while we shall be as wise as they - and as taciturn.

Ultimately life is disease, death and oblivion. It's still better than high school.

Oh my God, if I know anything, I know I'm gonna die! I never forget that. I know I'll be forgotten in a minute, and that's just fine with me.

When I die, and people realize that I will not be resurrected in three days, they will forget me. That is the way it should be.

We are all in a race for dear life: that is to say, we are fugitives from death.

Death is feared as birth is forgotten.

After I die, I'll be forgotten.

I hate to say this, but I'll repeat it: After death, all we know that you do is stink.

Since fame is an illusion and death is in our future all we have is the next moment before we are swallowed into oblivion.

Strange - is it not? That of the myriads who Before us passed the door of Darkness through, Not one returns to tell us of the road Which to discover we must travel too.

I think that's what we're all most terrified about: that we'll just die and disappear and we'll leave no trace.

In a way, the whole tangible universe itself is a vast residue, a skeleton of countless lives that have germinated in it and have left it, leaving behind them only a trifling, infinitesimal part of their riches.

It ends all things: birds, trees, flowers, mountain tops, and business; it grinds stones to sand, and as terrible as it is, and it's the most beautiful thing we have in our lives - time.

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

We all go to our grave thinking that we will never be forgotten, and we are forgotten ten minutes later.

Everything is created to be annihilated.

We are born, we live, we disappear. One of the chilling aspects of history is the swiftness with which it carries us into oblivion.