Marguerite Gardiner Quotes

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

Oh, I'll be forgotten too, don't worry.

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

Avoid the world, it's just a lot of dust and drag and means nothing in the end.

Oblivion is the rule and fame the exception, of humanity.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Regarding life, the wisest men of all ages have judged alike: it is worthless.

But each day brings its petty dust Our soon-chok'd souls to fill, And we forget because we must, And not because we will.

People will forget me pretty quick.

It doesn't matter how popular an actor you are: nobody will remember you forever.

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

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

The Z’s will kill us all, and then the Z’s will die out and in sixty years there will be no one to remember our silly war, Caroline’s wasted ammunition, my year of zombic survivalism, Rene DesCartes’s musings, or Michelangelo’s sculptures. And that is really only the sadness here as I drink a thousand-dollar bottle of wine down here in the cellar: We did a few things worth remembering, and I wish for someone to remember them.

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.

Unvisited tombstones, unread diaries, and erased video game high-score rankings are three of the most potent symbols of mankind's pathetic and fruitless attempts at immortality.

Jump to the day we'll all be dead and none of this will matter. Jump to the day another house will stand here and the people living there won't know we ever happened.

The Bourne Underneath the growing grass, Underneath the living flowers, Deeper than the sound of showers: There we shall not count the hours By the shadows as they pass. Youth and health will be but vain, Beauty reckoned of no worth: There a very little girth Can hold round what once the earth Seemed too narrow to contain.

She was afraid to suggest to him that to most people, nothing "happens." That most people merely live from day to day until they die. That, after he had been dead a year, doubtless fewer than five people would think of him oftener than once a year. That there might even come a year when no one on earth would think of him at all.

This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

What childishness is it that while there's breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around?

Time destroys the speculation of men, but it confirms nature.

What is life? A madness. What is life? An illusion, a shadow, a story. And the greatest good is little enough; for all life is a dream, and dreams themselves are only dreams.

Glory comes too late, after one as been reduced to ashes.

We have lived long enough to experience the hollowness of earth and the rottenness of all carnal promises.

Just to be remembered is good enough for me. Lots of people are forgotten.