Best 125 quotes in «ending quotes» category

All the birds who were never born, all the songs that were never sung and so can only exist in the imagination. And this one is Teddy's.

Across the world millions of lives are altered by the absence of the dead, but three members of Teddy's last crew—Clifford the bomb-aimer, Fraser, the injured pilot, and Charlie, the tail-end Charlie—all bail out successfully from F-Fox and see out the rest of the war in a POW camp. On their return they all marry and have children, fractals of the future.

A good poem has rhyming but no ending, it continues to rhyme in our heart.

A little pain now and then is normal; The wounds will heal, and then we'll be okay. Life goes on, but not forever, So why should we?

«And in the end» said the witch to the drowning prince «You've been the one choosing the thornless path in spite of knowing where it could lead. The one who afraid of the pricking roses, plunged himself into an abyss without petals

A moment’s beginning ends in a moment

And as Sean climbs into bed and closes his eyes, Mother comes, riding astride a lion the size of a house, blowing a clarion from a horn made out of a hollowed-out elephant's tusk. Her eyes have a faint crimson glow from the lasers that are mounted behind her irises, ready to fire at will. 'I touched a prince's chest today and made his heart stop,' she says. 'I'll do it again if I have to: they'll see what happens if anyone gets in my way. Good night, my son. Remember that I will always keep you safe; that I am always everywhere and always here.' 'Good night, Mom,' Sean says, and falls asleep. And Mother recedes, wise and beautiful and strong, a genius and a hero, a punisher of thieves and a slayer of wicked men, to watch over her son in all her different versions.

An endless path is frightening but the path that ends is even more frightening!

And then I went back into my room, locked into a sequence as perfect as a pattern, and I sat down on my great rock throne, invisible to the outside world but palpable beneath me, and from how my face felt I thought maybe I was crying, either because I didn’t want to do this or because I did, it was hard to tell and anyway I never would, who would believe me in either case and who would be there to believe me in all cases, it was a puzzle, I had yet to learn the way of the jigsaw, and so I positioned the rifle beneath my chin, it feels cold, like an actual thing in the actual present physical world, OK, there it is, I am here now, and then I lay down on my belly and listened to the rising squall beyond the door.

And who am I, mighty Khan? She felt warmth in him then, the beginnings of a smile deep inside. He spread his wings. Bowed his head. Purred. YOU ARE YUKIKO.

And with a massive roar the fifth wall comes down and the house of fiction falls, taking Viola and Sunny and Bertie with it. They melt into thin air and disappear. Pouf!

And then I walked out, straight through the twilight, treading the beaten earth. There were no dust clouds, no signs of anyone, but I paid no mind. I was my own lucky hand of solitaire. The desert landscape unchanging: a long, unwinding scroll that I would one day amuse myself by filling. I'm going to remember everything and then I'm going to write it all down. An aria to a coat. A requiem for a café. That's what I was thinking, in my dream, looking down at my hands.

Another dream had been shattered.

Art is not cosy and it is not mocked. Art tells the only truth that ultimately matters. It is the light by which human things can be mended. And after art there is, let me assure you all, nothing.

A picture of the world, nothing more than a casting stone set in the heavens, intruded on Errol's dismay. World without end. Was Illustra, their entire world, nothing more than a lot for the ultimate reader, too small and insignificant a thing to care about?

Art, and sadness, which last forever.

But back then, back on Lispenard Street, I didn't know so much of this. Then, we were only standing and looking up at that red-brick building, and I was pretending that I never had to fear for him, and he was letting me pretend this: that all the dangerous things he could have done, all the ways he could have broken my heart, were in the past, the stuff of stories, that the time that lay behind us was scary, but the time that lay ahead of us was not.

As long as you’re breathing, your story’s still going.

Because this is how the world ends: not in the falling incendiaries of an aerial attack, not in a storm of toy soldiers laying waste to the gods who brought them into being, but in the banal letters of a bank. Where once was magic: now only economics.

Bringing the workbook to publication also meant an ending. An ending of many days and hours of interaction with Tyrone. I knew the day would bring that ending when we began but as it crept closer I felt the weight of hesitation as much as the excitement of relief. I found myself with thoughts like, "it will never be the same again as it is now" and "I am not sure I want this interaction to end". I love that man dearly and will forever be changed from knowing him. Handing our diligent work over to Kendall-Hunt for publication was as if I was handing the entirety of the relationship over.

Beautiful beginnings are often born from ugly endings.

Begin each day with the hope of ending it with the bests of your steps. Plan the day ahead and ensure that the plans are worthy of ensuring your dreams are achieved. Get started.

But as long as something is never even started, you never have to worry about it ending. It has endless potential.

But as Nik's lips moved to hers she could feel him kissing away the betrayal, the confusion, the pain, until all that was left were Nik and Georgia, finally together. And it felt like this time, it would be forever.

But one day, when Toby is old enough, I will take down a shoe box from a shelf where it is kept, and I will tell him again the story of his sister, Isabel Margaret Cavendish, the girl who came before.

Daemon clung to Surreal as she flew along the Winds, too weak to argue, too spent to care. His heart, however... His heart held on fiercely to Jaenelle's soft, sighing caress of his name. Everything has a price.

Carefully bracing himself so that he wouldn't hurt her, he leaned over and brushed his lips against hers. He raised his head. Her haunted sapphire eyes stared at him. "Daemon?" There was so much uncertainty in her voice. "Hello, sweetheart," he said, his voice husky with the effort not to cry. "I've missed you." Her hand moved slowly, with effort, until it rested against his face. Her lips curved into a smile. "Daemon." This time, when she said his name, it sounded like a promise, like a lovely caress.

Carol raised her hand slowly and brushed her hair back, once on either side, and Therese smiled because the gesture was Carol, and it was Carol she loved and would always love. Oh, in a different way now because she was a different person, and it was like meeting Carol all over again, but it was still Carol and no one else. It would be Carol, in a thousand cities, a thousand houses, in foreign lands where they would go together, in heaven and in hell. Therese waited. Then as she was about to go to her, Carol saw her, seemed to stare at her incredulously a moment while Therese watched the slow smile growing, before her arm lifted suddenly, her hand waved a quick, eager greeting that Therese had never seen before. Therese walked toward her.

Everything turns in circles and spirals with the cosmic heart until infinity. Everything has a vibration that spirals inward or outward — and everything turns together in the same direction at the same time. This vibration keeps going: it becomes born and expands or closes and destructs — only to repeat the cycle again in opposite current. Like a lotus, it opens or closes, dies and is born again. Such is also the story of the sun and moon, of me and you. Nothing truly dies. All energy simply transforms.

End is the end of your thinking and reasoning. End is not the end of endings.

Ending is just another word for goodbye.

Everything created has a beginning, Destiny of the Endless...as everything created has an end.

Did you say all that you meant to Before the curtain closed? Or did you feel so much more Than we'll ever know? You were an amazing person; One of the very best. You were here for part of my story; I wish you could hear the rest. I miss your smile most; The smile you had for all. Now I can only see it In pictures on the wall.

For the fragment of a life, however typical, is not the sample of an even web: promises may not be kept, and an ardent outset may be followed by declension; latent powers may find their long-awaited opportunity; a past error may urge a grand retrieval.

Happy endings happen every day we share our generosity, peace, compassion, kindness, respect, timeless love and joy with our love ones, friends and others.

Goodbye. Just tonight. Not ever.

I believe in (the American) people. I believe that people are more good than bad. I believe tragic things happen. I think there's evil in the world. But I think that at the end of the day, if we work hard, and if we're true to those things in us that feel true and feel right, that, the world gets a little better each time. That's what this presidency is trying to be about. And I see that in the young people i work with. This is not just drama-obama. This is what I really believe.

Have you ever heard a note in someone's voice that said 'This is the end?' I heard it in the next words he said to me, and I stopped listening.

He had a talismanic obsession with final pages. At school he would near a book's conclusion, whether it was pulp science fiction or The Return of the Native, with one hand firmly clamped over the ultimate paragraph, in case his eye lit on a single word which might rob the entire story of its point, spoil the answer to the riddle of why he was reading it. When he shared this with Genevieve, she admitted to him that she always started a book by reading its final page, that she still did, but she wasn't sure why.

His voice was deep, like a storm coming, but gentle, like the rain ending.

...and the hermit's spirit detaches itself, ever so gently, and begins its lonely passage upward, to find its final resting place among the stars.

He felt as if something had been completed and he would never see any of those people again.

He loved her. And she loved him. And in such bliss does devastation grow.

How often do you think we write our own ending before the story is even finished? How often do we give up on ourselves when our lives are just starting? Things get hard and we immediately back away and assume that means we’re going in the wrong direction, doing the wrong thing. If anything, when the waters get thick, that’s our sign to keep going.

I don't expect congratulations for successful beginning, what I want is the applaud at successful ending.

I don’t know if I can put it into words just yet, this feeling like something’s ending and I have to be close to it.

I don't know what happened. Disease? War? Social collapse? Or was it just us? The Dead replacing the Living? I guess it's not so important. Once you've arrived at the end of the world, it hardly matters which route you took.

I fear that there will be no neat ending to this, in the manner of the old Greek plays. Where the Gods descend, and all is explained, and tidied away.

If a road ends, that creates a great opportunity to develop new abilities to continue! Welcome every challenge in your life!

If you want a happy ending, it just depends on where you close the book!