Quotes on Fades

The conduct and manners of women, in fact, evidently prove that their minds are not in a healthy state; for, like the flowers which are planted in too rich a soil, strenght state; usefulness are sacrificed to beauty; and the flaunting leaves, after having pleased a fastidious eye, fade, disregarded on the stalk, long before the season when they ought to have arrived at maturity.

Health is the soul that animates all the enjoyments of life, which fade and are tasteless without it.

"Beauty fades," my father would tell me, "but dumb? Dumb is forever."

Am I a guy who writes about himself in a comic book, or am I just a character in that book? If I die, will that character keep going, or will he just fade away?

Speech has power. Words do not fade. What starts out as a sound, ends in a deed.

One difference between poetry and lyrics is that lyrics sort of fade into the background. They fade on the page and live on the stage when set to music.

The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever.

Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,_x000D_ _x000D_ The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,_x000D_ _x000D_ Drops in a silent autumn night._x000D_ _x000D_ All its allotted length of days_x000D_ _x000D_ The flower ripens in its place,_x000D_ _x000D_ Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,_x000D_ _x000D_ Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Wherever applause breaks out in the liturgy because of some human achievement, it is a sure sign that the essence of liturgy has totally disappeared and been replaced by a kind of religious entertainment. Such attraction fades quickly - it cannot compete in the market of leisure pursuits, incorporating as it increasingly does various forms of religious titillation.

Alcohol is barren. The words a man speaks in the night of drunkenness fade like the darkness itself at the coming of day.

Twilight - a time of pause when nature changes her guard. All living things would fade and die from too much light or too much dark, if twilight were not.

What have I done? I've blundered my way through life. So I have my picture on the wall. The minute I die, that picture will start to yellow and fade and eventually be gone. Blown in the wind and become part of the molecular structure of something else. These things we see as "success," they're non-accomplishments.

Sooner or later the public will forget you; the memory of you will fade. What's important are the individuals you've influenced along the way.

Full fathom five thy father lies;_x000D_ Of his bones are coral made;_x000D_ Those are pearls that were his eyes;_x000D_ Nothing of him that doth fade,_x000D_ But doth suffer a sea-change_x000D_ Into something rich and strange._x000D_ Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:_x000D_ Ding-dong._x000D_ Hark! now I hear them — Ding-dong, bell.

My life was hurrying, racing tragically toward its end. And yet at the same time it was dripping so slowly, so very slowly now, hour by hour, minute by minute. One always has to wait until the sugar melts, the memory dies, the wound scars over, the sun sets, the unhappiness lifts and fades away.

What is it precisely, that feeling of 'returning' from a poem? Something is lighter, softer, larger - then it fades, but never completely.

Nothing in my life ever seemed to fade away or take its rightful place among the pantheon of experiences that constituted my eighteen years. It was all still with me, the storage space in my brain crammed with vivid memories, packed and piled like photographs and old dresses in my grandmother’s bureau. I wasn’t just the madwoman in the attic — I was the attic itself. The past was all over me, all under me, all inside me.

Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way they're preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants.

A poet must be a psychologist, but a secret one: he should know and feel the roots of phenomena but present only the phenomena themselves in full bloom or as they fade away.

It was the nature of his profession that his experience with death should be greater than for most and he said that while it was true that time heals bereavement it does so only at the cost of the slow extinction of those loved ones from the heart's memory which is the sole place of their abode then or now. Faces fade, voices dim. Seize them back, whispered the sepulturero. Speak with them. Call their names. Do this and do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift.

Desire makes everything blossom; possession makes everything wither and fade.