If life be long, I will be glad, Tthat I may long obey; If short, yet why should I be sad, To soar to endless day?

And this, too, shall pass away.

And this, too, shall pass away.' How much it expresses! How chastening in the hour of pride! How consoling in the depths of affliction!

Artistic talent is like a brilliant firework which streaks across a pitch-black night, inspiring awe among onlookers but extinguishing itself in seconds, leaving behind only darkness and longing.

This life is a dressing room for eternity - THAT'S ALL IT IS!

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations--these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat.

Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more.

Until we can comprehend the beguiling beauty of a single flower, we are woefully unable to grasp the meaning and potential of life itself.

I suppose if a man has something once, always something of it remains.

For we have been there in the books and out of the books—and where we go, if we are any good, there you can go as we have been. A country, finally, erodes and the dust blows away, the people all die and none of them were of any importance permanently, except those who practised the arts

and the palm fronds of our victories, the worn light bulbs of our discoveries and the empty condoms of our great loves float with no significance against one single, lasting thing—the stream.

Life is a breath, a passing breeze; a blade of grass, green and vibrant for a time, only to wither, die, and disappear. Soon you will be dead.