Jimi Hendrix Quotes

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

Age carries all things away, even the mind.

In relative youth, we assume we'll remember everything. Someone should urge the young to think otherwise.

Nothing can last forever. There isn't any memory, no matter how intense, that doesn't fade out at last.

Man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more.

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten, Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold, Let it be forgotten forever and ever, Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

I realized people would soon forget me once I was dead. I couldn't even say that this was hard to stomach; really, there's no idea to which one doesn't get acclimatized in time.

Time folds you in its arms and gives you one last kiss, and then it flattens you out and folds you up and tucks you away until it's time for you to become someone else's past time, and then time folds again.

Everything's going to end eventually. I don't know if we're rushing it or making it faster.

Letting go all else, cling to the following few truths. Remember that man lives only in the present, in this fleeting instant: all the rest of his life is either past and gone, or not yet revealed. This mortal life is a little thing, lived in a little corner of the earth; and little, too, is the longest fame to come - dependent as it is on a succession of fast-perishing little men who have no knowledge even of their own selves, much less of one long dead and gone.

You live and learn. Then you die and forget it all.

Death, like the sun, cannot be looked at steadily.

It's as if we spend our entire lives avoiding Jell-O but it is always there at the end, waiting.

Alas, how right the ancient saying is: We, who are old, are nothing else but noise And shape. Like mimicries of dreams we go, And have no wits, although we think us wise.

The past is a bucket of ashes

And though I remember her name I cannot recall her face. All things pass.

There is no recollection which time does not put an end to, and no pain which death does not remove.

Seeking to perpetuate one's name on earth is like writing on the sand by the seashore; to be perpetual it must be written on eternal shores.

Visiting old haunts is hard on memory. Things shrink, change, and disappear.