Best 115 quotes in «oblivion quotes» category

I went home and went to sleep. Outside of the occasional irritation, I had no nightmares, no passions, no desires, no great pains.

Love me like today is the last day we can see stars in the sky, let us sleep under them and throw ourselves into the oblivion and never again reach out for reality.

Local fog in Venice has a name: nebbia. It obliterates all reflections ... and everything that has a shape: buildings, people, colonnades, bridges, statues. Boat services are canceled, airplanes neither arrive, nor take off for weeks, stores are closed and mail ceases to litter one’s threshold. The effect is as though some raw hand had turned all those enfilades inside out and wrapped the lining around the city... the fog is thick, blinding, and immobile... this is a time for reading, for burning electricity all day long, for going easy on self-deprecating thoughts of coffee, for listening to the BBC World Service, for going to bed early. In short, a time for self-oblivion, induced by a city that has ceased to be seen. Unwittingly, you take your cue from it, especially if, like it, you’ve got company. Having failed to be born here, you at least can take some pride in sharing its invisibility...

Memory near oblivion. Far death

Literature is the opiate of the educated masses.

Much as oblivion is the death of sorrow So death is life's forgetfulness

? Natatakot ako na baka hindi ako alalahanin ng mga tao kapag nawala na ako sa mundo. Hindi naman sa sobrang desperada akong gumawa ng good deed just for that pathetic reason, pero aminin man natin o hindi, kahit na gaano pa kasama ang isang tao, kahit sa kaloob looban niya, kahit papaano ay inaasam niya pa rin na maalala siya kapag wala na siya, na mamiss pa rin siya ng mga tao kahit na hindi na siya nakikita pa, na iiyakan siya kahit isang luha lang ang kumawala sa mata ng taong pinapahalagahan niya kapag nalamang pansamantala siyang mawawalay ng matagal sa mga tao, at kahit papaano ay sasabihin ng kahit isang tao man lang na “Kung nandito siya, sana..

Not anymore, though," he said. "And I guess that's the one perk of loving a dead girl. She never changes.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; But you shall shine more bright in these contents Than unswept stone, besmear'd with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

Nowhere and oblivion were completely different things/places to Richard Stein. For him, oblivion is when something goes into nothing and nowhere is the place where something can come out of nothing.

Now you go into oblivion.

Oblivion is the place where all my best thoughts reside or I must say hide.

No mark survives this place: you too will yield to unmemory.

Oblivion, she thought. That was the world she lived in. It was what they should name some countries, towns, and places.

Please let him look. I didn't need to hide from someone courting oblivion as ardently as I am.

On his thirteenth birthday he had seen a film in which the central character was a painter who, unable to sell his work, grew cold and hungry as he went from one unsuccessful interview to the next; eventually he had become a vagrant, sleeping in the streets of the city where once he had walked in hope. Hawksmoor left the cinema in a mood of profound, terrified apprehension and, from that time, he was filled with a sense of time passing and with the fear that he might be left discarded on its banks. The fear had not left him, although now he could no longer remember from where it came: he looked back on his earlier life without curiosity, since it seemed to lack intrinsic interest, and when he looked forward he saw the same steady attainment of goals without any joy in their attainment. For him, the state of happiness was simply the state of not suffering and, if he cared for anything, it was for oblivion.

Si para todo hay término y hay tasa y última vez y nunca más y olvido ¿quién nos dirá de quién en esta casa, sin saberlo, nos hemos despedido?

...she imagines her body curled in the narrow monk's bed, knees to chin, her own irrefutable geography, but she sees the blood of her futile heart seeping out over her chest and arms and legs, flooding across the rough wooden floor, down the narrow wooden stairs and out into the old soil of the garden. No roses, no, she does not even ask to make roses, just dissolution; most any night she asks just for that.

Soon, I'd be home again. Soon, God willing, I'd be asleep.

Standing at the edge of time Almost falling down to the dark abyss As I near the end of mine I reminisce the things I will miss The smiles and laughter Running around without a care The time when my grin will never falter Being so free, willing my soul to bare Heartaches, heartbreaks and tears Now I know better and to myself I will never lie Because in woe, I learned to love and never fear Those were the best and worst moments of my life As the memories rush back to me I look down and now I feel relieved Because when it is time Everything will be fine when I leave

Tell me again what you said at the revel,” he says, climbing over me, his body against mine. “What?” I can barely think. “That you hate me,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Tell me that you hate me.” “I hate you,” I say, the words coming out like a caress. I say it again, over and over. A litany. An enchantment. A ward against what I really feel. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” He kisses me harder. “I hate you,” I breathe into his mouth. “I hate you so much that sometimes I can’t think of anything else.

There are no good or evil people. There is only a great, unfathomable mob trampling itself underfoot. The life-giving sources of the old morality have dried up and vanished in the sands of oblivion. There's no other source to draw from, no place to refresh oneself. There is no example, no inspiration. It is night. A night of indifference, apathy, chaos.

There will come a time,'' I said, ''when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. [...]

There will come a time', I said, 'when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this.'-- I gestured encompassingly-- 'will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organis,s experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that's what everyone else does.' -Hazel Grace Lancaster

Though Isobel could recall only a few specifics regrading the appearance of Poe's wife-a handful of vague characteristics picked up during her study with Varen, retained from the one or two glimpses she'd had for her portraits- Scrimshaw, it seemed, had forgotten nothing.

To set one's name to a work gives no one a title to be remembered, for who knows how many of the best of men have gone without a trace?

What matters is at the end of life, when you're about to pass into oblivion, that you've at least scratched 'Kilroy was here,' on the last wall of the universe.

She smiles, and her eyes look as if they can see back into her memory, into all the things that have gone into making a person what they are.

Tears flow and smiles fade to the same rhythm of life, to disappear together in the bottomless abyss.

The great myth is that the bad ones don't last long.

The Poem About Taking out the Trash In the vast emptiness of darkness, Stars are being born and are burning out; Galaxies expand, into what I have no idea, And dark matter fills the infinite space That has no bounds and no limits. In the middle of all this, I stand In a single moment and know how small I am. A group of atoms, the size of nothing in comparison. I am the observer of the play on a tiny stage. The onlooker who watches the painting Of a picture that few stop to see. The listener of a song where I hear only a fraction Of a fraction of a note in a song that will be forever sung And that has been being sung for eternity upon eternity, Before I knew breath and sound. I am but dust, stardust, a breath of a life, smoke Rising into oblivion, here then gone as quickly. Under all of this, I take out the trash.

There was existence in oblivion; there is you in oblivion.

Things are happening out there. Don’t waste your life in wishful thinking. Get out of your cocoon and go make a name for yourself. Life is too short to be wasted in oblivion.

What if you had once seen hell open, and all the damned there in their easeless torments, and had heard them crying out of their slothfulness in the day of their visitation, and wishing that they had but another life to live, and that God would but try them once again; one crying out of this neglect of duty, and another of his loitering and trifling, when he should have been labouring for his life; what manner of person would you have been after such a sight as this ? (284)

What we all dread most,” said the priest in a low voice, “is a maze with no centre. That is why atheism is only a nightmare.

Why is my love for you, dyed in wool? What is the hindrance to moving on? Why in love have I been made a fool? What’s been causing this oblivion? Why is thought of you, ever-present? What’s keeping me from forgetting you? Why is the sight of you magnificent? What’s it you possess than others few? A slow fire burns deep within me, And keeps my curiosity at high I question these puzzles so direly, To philosophy, a pleasure – wry If all life has led me to this point, To make me but a mere proponent Then, from this day to my last moment, Just you and love, are my argument.

You loved her," Isobel said. "Worshipped," Scrimshaw corrected. "But more ludicrous than that, let us not forget, she loved me." He gave a short ironic laugh. "Not just him-the poet. But me as well. I, the epitome of our own penchant for self-destruction. Do you know how difficult...how impossible such a feat must have been?

You take me off my path As the wind exhausts the clouds You tell me not to try To hold your face But even if you're only A reflection on a wall -You make me live. And I know that your lips Will triumph from oblivion In the book of the world.

And blind oblivion swallowed cities up.

Before we are forgotten, we will be turned into kitsch. Kitsch is the stopover between being and oblivion.

Fame is a vapor, popularity an accident; the only earthly certainty is oblivion.

Who forgets himself in love remembers the future. (Qui s'oublie dans l'amour - Se souvient du futur)

Apathy is a sort of living oblivion.

Death! It is rest to the aged, it is oblivion to the atheist, it is immortality to the poet!

Do you really like a particular stock? Put 10% or so of your portfolio on it. Make the idea count … Good [investment] ideas should not be diversified away into meaningless oblivion.

God has no power over the past except to cover it with oblivion.

Housework is a treadmill from futility to oblivion with stop-offs at tedium and counter productivity.

I gratefully look forward to oblivion, but I must be sure of it

I have, at times, been absorbed in my work to the point of complete self-oblivion. Once I worked for thirty-six hours without a break - to complete exhaustion; and while I was in the middle of it I didn't even notice.

I am the family face; flesh perishes, I live on, projecting trait and trace through time to times anon, and leaping from place to place over oblivion.