Alan Clark Quotes

Getting fired was always a big deal to me. It's a bit like having someone break up with you.

Everything I have done has been wasted. In another 20 years France will be dead.

You're going to lose eventually. It doesn't matter who you are.

A fundamental lesson on being fired: Never lie about it. People will know what you're saying is a cover-up for how you really feel - embarrassed, discouraged, and afraid.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

There's nothing wrong with being fired.

No matter what heights you achieve, even if you're Brad Pitt, the slide is coming, sure as death and taxes.

Everything that goes up must come down. But there comes a time when not everything that's down can come up.

I'm dying always.

Death will never be pretty - its sights and smells too close and crude. And it will never come under our control: it gallops where we tiptoe, rips up our routines, burns our very breath with its heat and sting.

Dead men have no victory.

Death is out there for all of us.

Life always kills you in the end, but first it prevents you from getting what you want.

Dust, in the end, settles on everything.

Everything rises but to fall, and increases but to decay.

As the end of the century approaches, all our culture is like the culture of flies at the beginning of winter. Having lost their agility, dreamy and demented, they turn slowly about the window in the first icy mists of morning. They give themselves a last wash and brush-up, their oscillated eyes roll, and they fall down the curtains.

Death is the ultimate disappointment

All live to die, and rise to fall.

Greatness, once fallen out with fortune, must fall out with men too.

When you're fired, you're rejected. It's as simple as that.

All games contain the idea of death.

I suppose he'll die soon. I'm expecting it, like you do for a dog that's seventeen. There's no way to know how I'll react. He'll have faced his own placid death and slipped without a sound inside himself. Mostly, I imagine I'll crouch there at the door, fall onto him, and cry hard into the stench of his fur. I'll wait for him to wake up, but he won't. I'll bury him. I'll carry him outside, feeling his warmth turn to cold as the horizon frays and falls down in my backyard. For now, though, he's okay. I can see him breathing. He just smells like he's dead.

They can only kill us once.

I must indeed abide the Doom of Men whether I will or nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Numenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Elves say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive.