Arthur Golden Quotes

Your body is like a dew-drop on the morning grass, your life is as brief as a flash of lightning. Momentary and vain, it is lost in a moment.

In life, and in sports, we all know that nothing lasts forever.

Transience is one of the fundamental characteristics both of the human condition and of the political order.

Even though in the world you are the most learned scholar of the time, Behold the vanishing of this world and this time!

The seed of mortals broods o'er passing things, and hath nought surer than the smoke-cloud's shadow.

We are all ghosts of yesterday, and the phantom of tomorrow awaits us alike in sunshine or in shadow, dimly perceived at times, never entirely lost.

There is nothing in the whole world which abides. All things are in a state of ebb and flow, and every shadow passes away. Even time itself, like a river, is constantly gliding away .

Life is like a fire. Flames which the passer-by forgets. Ashes which the wind scatters. A man lived.

The hardest thing for me is the sense of impermanence. All passes; nothing returns.

Things pass us by. Nobody can catch them. That's the way we live our lives.

The things we now esteem fixed shall, one by one, detach themselves, like ripe fruit, from our experience, and fall. The wind shall blow them none knows whither.

Nothing lasts forever. That's the tragedy and the miracle of existence - that everything is impermanent. Everything changes. All we can do is make the best of the time we have. And go down shooting, naturally.

Reflect often upon the rapidity with which all existing things, or things coming into existence, sweep past us and are carried away.

Life is short. If you doubt me, ask a butterfly. Their average life span is a mere five to fourteen days.

Everything is about to disappear. You've got to hurry up if you still want to see things.

The morning Sunne never lasts a day.

We're only immortal for a limited time.

We're all vanishing organisms and disappearing creatures in space and time - that death sentence in space in time that Kafka talked about with such profundity.

This greatest mortal consolation, which we derive from the transitoriness of all things-from the right of saying, in every conjuncture, "This, too, will pass away.

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...

Everything is temporary if you give it enough time.

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

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