Best 125 quotes in «ending quotes» category

Seventeen moons, seventeen years, Eyes where Dark or Light appears, Gold for yes and green for no, Seventeen the last to know.

Remember no matter how fast you run, you can't be the winner if you don't finish. As someone said, to be the first to finish, you must finish first! Go, take the strike!

Six days, and I have eaten nothing. It is night. I am sitting in my chair. Ah, God! I wonder have any ever felt the horror of life that I have come to know? I am swathed in terror. I feel ever the burning of this dread growth. It has covered all my right arm and side, and is beginning to creep up my neck. To-morrow, it will eat into my face. I shall become a terrible mass of living corruption. There is no escape. Yet, a thought has come to me, born of a sight of the gun-rack, on the other side of the room. I have looked again—with the strangest of feelings. The thought grows upon me. God, Thou knowest, Thou must know, that death is better, aye, better a thousand times than This. This! Jesus, forgive me, but I cannot live, cannot, cannot! I dare not! I am beyond all help—there is nothing else left. It will, at least, spare me that final horror… … . "I think I must have been dozing. I am very weak, and oh! so miserable, so miserable and tired—tired. The rustle of the paper, tries my brain[…]

She simply could not imagine lives ending so soon. Oh, you poor young men, she thought wildly.

She said that everything that disappeared from our side went over to theirs, where they kept living normal lives, waiting for the things still lingering with us to join them, and make the world whole once more.

Since the world is ending,” Peter quoted from behind us, “why not let the children touch the paintings?

So ended . . . a royal friendship which once could not be contained within the common bounds of love.

Sotto le nuvole bianche, cade la neve. Non si vedono né le nuvole, né la neve. Né il gelo, né lo splendore candido della terra. Un omino solo scivola sopra i suoi sci e va. La neve cade. Cade fino a che l’omino scompare tornando nella sua opacità. Il mio amico Serge, un amico di tanti e tanti anni, ha comprato un quadro. E’ una tela di circa un metro e sessanta per uno e venti. Raffigura un uomo che attraversa lo spazio e poi scompare.

There's no room for me in your world; It's time I stopped pretending. But nothing hurts me more Than a friendship when it's ending.

Standing there small among the boxes of Kandy Kakes that rose like brownish cartoon cliffs around him, he resembled the videos I'd seen of sea lions floating angelically among the kelp, black bodies filmed from below, their shapes cut out in bright sunlight, bodies mistakable for those of a human being. I felt the memory of a shadowy arm around me, a watcher again, sitting there on the couch with my boyfriend, watching the animals become prey. Somewhere there were giant whales feeding on creatures too small to see, pressing them against fronds of baleen with a tongue the size of a sedan. There were polar bears killing seals, tearing ovoid chunks from out of their smooth, round bellies. In the surrounding vastness of the warehouse, I heard something scratching against the concrete floor and knew there were rats here, scraping a thin film of nutrient from the dry packaged matter that surrounded them. Life was everywhere, inescapable, imperative.

stimulus: relevant cry (if then therefore) say: cry. say: knife o knife o knife

That first winter, when it was time for her friends to leave, the girl ventured out into the show to say goodbye, and the stunning raven-haired Squaller handed her another gift. "A blue kefta," said the math teacher, shaking her head. "What would she do with that?" "Maybe she knew a Grisha who died," replied the cook, taking note of the tears that filled the girl's eyes. They did not see the note that read, You will always be one of us.

The hard part wasn’t breaking up. The hard part is forcing myself to fall out of love with you.

The machines of this place are failing, and the woman and I are here all alone. The perpetual motion engine, as brilliant and beautiful as it is, is running down—nothing lasts forever. But before this little world falls out of the sky there still might be time enough for redemption. There is still time for me to say the words that I should have had the courage to say at the beginning. There is still time, perhaps, for one more miracle. Hello, Miranda.

There are endings. There are beginnings. Sometimes they coincide, with the ending of one thing marking the beginning of another. But sometimes there is simply a long space after an ending, a time when it seems everything else has ended and nothing else can ever begin.

That is no doubt how the story ought to end, with the seals and the stars, explanation, resignation, reconciliation, everything picked up into some radiant bland ambiguous higher significance, in calm of mind, all passion spent. However life, unlike art, has an irritating way of bumping and limping on, undoing conversions, casting doubt on solutions, and generally illustrating the impossibility of living happily or virtuously ever after; so I thought I might continue the tale a little longer in the form once again of a diary, though I suppose that, if this is a book, it will have to end, arbitrarily enough no doubt, in quite a short while.

The clean, clear ending that society keeps looking for is impossible to find.

The moral of this story is that no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want it ... some stories just don't have a happy ending.

The morning weighs on my shoulders with the dreadful weight of hope and I take the blue envelope which Jacques has sent me and tear it slowly into many pieces, watching them dance in the wind, watching the wind carry them away. Yet, as I turn and begin walking toward the waiting people, the wind blows some of them back on me.

There's something stalking us. Off to the side of the road, moving through the forest.' Kettricken smiled.

There's never a beginning for eternity.

This was the last thing we needed. I was sure we made quite a pair, me in my evening gown and Milo in his bloodstained shirt. 'Let's hurry to the car, Milo.' I made a move to descend the front steps, ready to push my way through the crowd, but Milo stopped me with a hand on my arm. 'Just a moment, darling.' 'What is it?' 'Let's give them something to put in the gossip columns first, shall we?' And he pulled me to him and kissed me thoroughly in the blinding glare of the flashbulbs.

The two of us in that room. No past, no future. All intense deep that-time-only. A feeling that everything must end, the music, ourselves, the moon, everything. That if you get to the heart of things you find sadness for ever and ever, everywhere; but a beautiful silver sadness, like a Christ face.

they say that girls are the ones who want fairy tail endings, but then again, who are the authors of fairy tales? mostly men...

This is it. This is how I always saw heaven, always by the sea, always by night, always in the dark.

Those who leave a mark in the history of humanity are often those who continue to walk on the roads that end!

Three creaks. She stepped three times. What is the meaning of it? Three creaks, three weeks? If she comes back for her shoes in three days, then I only need to empty them another three times. If it really is three weeks that were meant, what then. If three months, what then. Three years. That's why I had to write it down now. By then I may no longer believe I heard anything in Miri's room.

We almost bumped into each other. But your eyes were down so you didn't know it was me. And together we said it. "I'm sorry." Then you looked up. You saw me. And there, in your eyes, what was it? Sadness? Pain? You moved around and tried pushing your hair away from your face. Your fingernails were painted dark blue. I watched you walk down the long stretch of hallway. I stood there and watched you disappear. Forever.

Tonight shall be the very beginning.' 'Was it?' 'It shall be. For me.' 'My beginning was the albatrosses.' 'That is a good beginning; I am glad it is yours. Tonight shall be mine.' 'Ought we to have different ones?' 'Different beginnings? I think we must.' 'Will there be more of them?' 'A great many more. Are your eyes closed?' 'Yes. Are yours?' 'Yes. Though it's so dark it hardly makes a difference.' 'I feel—more than myself.' 'I feel—as though a new chamber of my heart has opened.' 'Listen.' 'What is it?' 'The rain.

- [...] Va'esse deireádh aep eigean, va'esse eigh faidh'ar, powtarzała, co się po ichniemu wykłada jako... - Coś się kończy, coś się zaczyna.

We hide our demons so good, that the angels we show, bare the shame on their faces.

We are not against the ending of things; we are only against the ending of good things!

We can ask and ask but we can't have again what once seemed ours forever—the way things looked, that church alone in the fields, a bed on a belfry floor, a remembered voice, the touch of a hand, a loved face. They've gone and you can only wait for the pain to pass. All this happened so long ago. And I never returned, never wrote, never met anyone who might have given me news of Oxgody. So, in memory, it stays as I left it, a sealed room furnished by the past, airless, still, ink long dry on a put-down pen. But this was something I knew nothing of as I closed the gate and set off across the meadow.

We cannot really love the dead. We love a fantasm that secretly consoles. What love sometimes mistakes for death is a kind of intense suffering, a pain that can be endured and absorbed. But the idea of a real ending, that cannot be envisaged . . . Indeed, in the language of love the concept of an ending is devoid of sense. (So we must go beyond love or utterly change it.)

We're still on the run. That's for sure. Right on. This time we're on. And we won't stop till we win.

We met at a cross-roads in life, But we were going different directions. We were part of each other's lives, But only for a moment. The first person that you meet in life Won't necessarily be the one who's forever. Just look at you and me, And it's not hard to see that This is the moment before life goes on. We are still friends; We are still really good friends. Please tell me that you agree. But I'm not the one for you, And you just can't see yourself with me.

We must make tough decisions to see if it’s worth it in the end.

Whoever you be, O my reader- friend, foe- I wish with you to part at present as a pal. Farewell. Whatever you in my wake sought in these careless strophes- tumultuous recollections, relief from labors, live pictures or bons mots, or faults of grammar- God grant that you, in this book, for recreation, for the daydream, for the heart, for jousts in journals, may find at least a crumb. Upon which, let us part, farewell!

We were like velcro with all the noise it makes when you take the two pieces apart, hugging like staples, we went until there, this time for good it’s over.

When did the world begin and how?" I asked a lamb, a goat, a cow: "What's it all about and why?" I asked a hog as he went by: "Where will the whole thing end, and when?" I asked a duck, a goose, a hen: And I copied all the answers too, A quack, a honk, an oink, a moo.

When someone puts an end to something, it doesn't mean that he gave up, it means that thing is not taking him anywhere.

When you begin, you envision a better end but, when you get to the end, you see the beginning better!

You're right, it's all going to be perfection," Kitty said, gazing out the window as the workmen began rehanging The Palace of Eighteen Perfections on her drawing-room wall.

You are now free to leave the FAYZ.

You have no control over how your story begins or ends. But by now, you should know that all things have an ending. Every spark returns to darkness. Every sound returns to silence. Every flower returns to sleep with the earth. The journey of the sun and moon is predictable. But yours, is your ultimate art.

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

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.

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.

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 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.