Best 476 quotes in «immortality quotes» category

The shade of the sky changed ever so slightly in her peripheral vision. She raised her eyes from her toes to the horizon, to witness the sun’s last dance in the daylight as it began to descend slowly, magically into the distant sea. Exotic pastel hues of orange and fuchsia were now painted across the fading expression of the day. It was a calm yet isolating vision to take into her heart, for it made her feel exceedingly small in the grand scheme of things.

The soul exists partly in eternity and partly in time.

The sun had now set the sky ablaze with glorious hues of orange. She squinted to focus in the brilliance and thoughts of distant fire breathing dragons lit up her imagination once again.

The termination; final chapter of endless road.

The teaching of Jesus Christ has as its central theme unfoldment towards a realization of immortality.

The 'tragedy' of the slow growth of immortalism pertains mostly to them, and perhaps to you – not so much to me or to us, the committed immortalists. We already have made our arrangements for cryostasis after clinical death – signed our contracts with existing organizations and allocated the money. We will have our chance, and with a little bit of luck will 'taste the wine of centuries unborn'.

The world is wide, wide, wide, and I am young, young, young, and we’re all going to live forever!' We were very hungry but we didn’t want to leave, so we ate there. We had chicken sandwiches; boy, the chicken of the century. Dry, wry, and tender, the dryness sort of rubbing against your tongue on soft, bouncy white bread with slivers of juicy wet pickles. Then we had some very salty potato chips and some olives stuffed with pimentos and some Indian nuts and some tiny pearl onions and some more popcorn. Then we washed the whole thing down with iced martinis and finished up with large cups of strong black coffee and cigarettes. One of my really great meals.

They all seem infected with a vivaciousness that isn't common in our compound, and there are more smiles on their faces than I've ever seen at once. And yet as I watch them, I feel more intensely than ever the knowledge that I'm not one of them. For these moral humans, birthdays are a kind of countdown to the end, the ticking clock of a dwindling life. For me, birthdays are notches on an infinite timeline. Will I grow tired of parties one day? Will my birthday become meaningless? I imagine myself centuries from now, maybe at my three-hundredth birthday, looking all the way back to my seventeenth. How will I possibly be happy, remembering the light in my mother's eyes? The swiftness of Uncle Antonio's steps as he dances? The way my father stands on edge of the courtyard, smiling in that vague, absent way of his? The scene shifts and blues in my imagination. As if brushed away by some invisible broom, these people whom I've known my entire life disappear. The courtyard is empty, bare, covered in decaying leaves. I imagine Little Cam deserted, with everyone dead and gone and only me left in the shadows. Forever.

The worms do not take heed of caste and rank when they feast on our ashes," the Raja said. "Your subjects will not remember you. They will not remember the shade of your eyes, the colors you favored, or the beauty of your wives. They will only remember your impression upon their hearts and whether you filled them with glee or grief. That is your immortality.

They can only kill us once.

To be mortal is the most basic human experience, and yet man has never been able to accept it, grasp it, and behave accordingly. Man doesn't know hot to be mortal. And when he dies, he doesn't even know hot to be dead.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think the same could be said for time.

This is really no solution, not primarily because we have no reason to believe it, but because it trades on a shallow analysis of the problem. Our life is compromised not by death, but by something lying in us, within the power of our will. To a superficial view it may look as though all our troubles would be over if only could live a healthy life without end. But down deeper, we want not just more life, but a worthwhile life. The immature that the yearning for immortality is a yearning endless existence, but really it is the yearning for a morally worthy existence. Our current life is unworthy, and its extension beyond the grave will not solve the problem that fact the sting of life is not basically that it comes to a temporal end, but that we are guilty; we have failed to become what we ought, to achieve worthiness. The riddle of life is constituted nor by our mortality, but by our unrighteousness.

This trespass had not come without a price. Living un-lives, material comforts and luxuries became superfluous, connection to the outside world undesirable, and power their only sustenance. But they had paid gladly, considering this “humanity” a small price for the power they now wielded; power that would sustain them far beyond the lives of mere humans and perhaps, in time, even grant them immortality.

Tiberius sparred, “Mr. Monogamy doesn’t find my shenanigans funny? Oh thank god, if you did I’d have to chuck it all and join a monastery.” Thorne sparred, “You’d never be able to stop talking long enough.” Frost laughed, “He’d light on fire as soon as he stepped through the gate.” “Right alongside of you,” Tiberius said, patting Frost’s shoulder. “Touché,” Frost chuckled. “You do have me there.

...those lives whose truths had disappeared into a vault of eternity beyond her reach—were not gone or silenced. She could hear them calling.

Thus far, the only people who can grant you immortality are not scientists, but writers. By writing you into their books, they may not only immortalize you, but also grant you superpowers.

To achieve success, ignore doubt; fame, ignore haters; greatness, ignore fear; and immortality, ignore hardship.

To love, to live, to feel so much that your world keeps spinning, faster and faster, in that wonderful, chaotic mess of humanity that you’d so hastily give up. Immortality is overrated. It is nothing but the ability to live through it all and not experience a single thing, to eat everything without tasting it at all." Isak’s eyes shone with a desperate need. He wanted, more than anything it seemed, to be like me, when all I wanted was to be like him.

Tombstones covered the dale, the smooth marble surfaces bright. She had spent days here as a teenager, though not out of any awareness of mortality. Like every adolescent, she intended to live forever.

Was it not worth the loss of a little immortality to have that strange mix of innocence and strength close to him?

True spiritual love is not a feeble imitation and anticipation of death, but a triumph over death, not a separation of the immortal form from the mortal, of the eternal from the temporal, but a transfiguration of the mortal into the immortal, the acceptance of the temporal into the eternal. False spirituality is a denial of the flesh; true spirituality is the regeneration of the flesh, its salvation, its resurrection from the dead.

Turn yourself into an idea and you shall never be forgotten by humanity, for bodies die, but not ideas with true potential for progress.

We don't know when our name came into being or how some distant ancestor acquired it. We don't understand our name at all, we don't know its history, and yet we bear it with exalted fidelity, we merge with it, we like it, we are ridiculously proud of it as if we had thought it up ourselves in a moment of brilliant inspiration. A face is like a name. It must have happened some time toward the end of my childhood: I kept looking in the mirror for such a long time that I finally believed that what I was seeing was my self. My recollection of this period is very vague, but I know that the discovery of the self must have been intoxicating. Yet there comes a time when you stand in front of a mirror and ask yourself: this is my self? And why? Why did I want to identify with this? What do I care about this face? And at that moment everything starts to crumble. Everything starts to crumble.

We are living in the falsehood due to the erroneous teachings of the society, community and the bordered nations.

We are temporarily immortal, until we have fulfilled God's plans for our lives...then we become temporarily mortal, waiting to become permanently immortal at last

We envy people who are extremely old because we wish to live that long, not because we want to be that old.

We were immortal, did you know that? Did you feel it like me? We had the world at our feet and we were going to live forever. Then came life – growing inside you – and I became mortal.

We have presumed based not on our own but on others’ deaths that we are mortal.

We were too greedy, grasping for immortality too soon. Perhaps if we had only been patient, content to wait, we would all have forever in the end.

We’re all immortal, as long as our stories are told.

We should be agnostic about those things for which there is no evidence. We should not hold beliefs merely because they gratify our desires for afterlife, immortality, heaven, hell, etc.

What decides whether a man will become immortal, is not his character but his vitality. Nothing save intensity confers immortality. A man manifests himself more vividly, in proportion as he is strong and unified, effective and unique. Immortality knows nothing of morality or immorality, of good or evil; it measures only work and strength; it demands from a man not purity but unity. Here, morality is nothing; intensity, all.

What if, you know—what if hanging out with Griffo Gerritszoon wasn’t always that great? What if he was weird and dreamy? What if the best part of him was the shapes he could make with metal? That part of him really is immortal. It’s as immortal as anything’s going to get.

What good is immortality if nothing has been done to repair the fault lines in the human heart?

When we are healthy, wealthy and powerful, we forget about our mortality. It’s only when irreparable cracks set in that we come back to reality.

What is life without death, Beneficent? You of all people can answer that question. A never-ending orgy of emptiness that you stuff with meaningless activity. Everything is disposable, including your relationships--especially your your relationships.

When we love each other we are immortal and indestructible like the heartbeat and the rain and the wind.

What is life but an attempt to let our immortal self defeat our mortality?

What? You don't think I'm perfect?" I can't resist, because he gets so riled whenever I bring it up. "I can run up to thirty miles without stopping. I can jump six feet in the air. There is not a material in this world sharp enough to pierce my skin. I cannot drown or suffocate. I am immune to every illness known to man. I have perfect memory. My senses are more acute that anyone else's. My reflexes rival those of a cat. I will never grow old" - my voice falls, all smugness gone -"and I will never die.

When I was girl by Nilus stream I watched the deserts stars arise; My lover, he who dreamed the Sphinx, Learned all his dreaming from eyes. I bore in Greece a burning name, And I have been in Italy Madonna to a painter-lad, And mistress to a Medici. And have you heard (and I have heard) Of puzzled men with decorous mien, Who judged - the wench knew far too much - And burnt her on the Salem green?

When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation." [As attributed by Alastair Reid in Neruda and Borges, The New Yorker, June 24, 1996; as well as in The Talk of the Town, The New Yorker, July 7, 1986]

Why love has to intense? Women's love isn't. It is a male contribution to a relationship. What does a woman contribute? Children continuity- intentional immortality.

When you have the power to love, that strength, that courage is infinite; that love is infinite. There is nothing finite about it's presence, for love. never. dies.

Who needs immortal strength when you've got weapons of mass destruction?

When you have to kill to get it, you’re gonna get killed If you keep it. That’s Karma

You cannot have the right to do what is wrong!

With regard to things such as independence, mental capabilities, and sexuality, a very old man is nothing but a gigantic infant with white hair and wrinkles.

Wouldn’t the joys of life lose all colour, if life was eternal?

Writing. Is it a way to be remembered, or a need to become immortal?