Richard Brautigan Quotes

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

eventually, everything goes away.

O the world is but a word; were it all yours to give it in a breath, how quickly were it gone!

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

To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?

Sleep is not, death is not; Who seem to die Live. House you were born in, Friends of your spring-time, old man and young maid, Day's toil and it's guerdon, They are all vanishing, Fleeing to fables, Cannot be moored

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

But everyone disappears, no matter who loves them.

You never know. It's just. It's like. POOF. And you're gone.

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.

Lives are mere blips on the canvas of eternity.

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

Life is only a flicker of melted ice.

No one loses any other life than the one he now lives, nor does one live any other life than that which he will lose.

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

Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.

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

Like the dew on the mountain, like the foam on the river, like the bubble on the fountain, thou art gone, and for ever!

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

Some things are forgotten, some things disappear, some things die.

It is human life. We are blown upon the world; we float buoyantly upon the summer air a little while, complacently showing off our grace of form and our dainty iridescent colors; then we vanish with a little puff, leaving nothing behind but a memory - and sometimes not even that. I suppose that at those solemn times when we wake in the deeps of the night and reflect, there is not one of us who is not willing to confess that he is really only a soap-bubble, and as little worth the making.

Where now are the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing? Where is the harp on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing? Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing? They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow; The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow. Who shall gather the smoke of the deadwood burning, Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

Up with the sun. Gone with the wind.