Men die but an idea does not.
You still stand watch, O human star, burning without a flicker, perfect flame, bright and resourceful spirit. Each of your rays a great idea - O torch which passes from hand to hand, from age to age, world without end.
Each life makes its own immitation of immortality.
Can one end anything? A chapter, a paragraph, a sentence even? Doesn't everything one has ever done go on living in spite of subsequent events?
I'm going to record forever.
The reward of great men is that, long after they have died, one is not quite sure that they are dead.
They never die, who have the future in them.
What life half gives a man, posterity gives entirely.
On the whole, infinity is a fairly palpable aspect of this business of publishing, if only because it extends a dead author's existence beyond the limits he envisioned, or provides a living author with a future he cannot measure. In other words, this business deals with the future which we all prefer to regard as unending.
Immortal Spenser, no frailty hath thy fame but the imputation of this idiot's friendship!
Whoever has the luck to be born a character can laugh even at death. Because a character will never die! A man will die, a writer, the instrument of creation: but what he has created will never die!
History hath triumphed over time, which besides it nothing but eternity hath triumphed over.
