Best 115 quotes in «oblivion quotes» category

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    I also remember being struck by de Sade's will, in which he asked that his ashes be scattered to the four corners of the earth in the hope that humankind would forget both his writings and his name. I'd like to be able to make that demand; commemorative ceremonies are not only false but dangerous, as are all statues of famous men. Long live forgetfulness, I've always said—the only dignity I see is in oblivion.

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    I am less of myself and more of the sun; The beat of life is wearing me To an incomplete oblivion,

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    I believe there is no heaven or hell. There are no devils or angels. No afterlife or salvation. My soul won't be incarnated or lost in the oblivion. One day, I will just stop existing... and that's it!

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    I can see her struggling to find the right word. Death seems so harsh. Passing so oblique. Some things are beyond words, I suppose, and she never finishes the statement. It seems right, that her words should fall into oblivion; after all, she—like me, like everyone—has no words for what follows, for the unknowable, only her hopes and prayers and an unwavering faith in something more.

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    I can’t bear the thought of oblivion, Asriel,” she continued. “Sooner anything than that. I used to think pain would be worse—to be tortured forever—I thought that must be worse . . . But as long as you were conscious, it would be better, wouldn’t it? Better than feeling nothing, just going into the dark, everything going out forever and ever?

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    If our splintered attention has led us to oblivion and blindness; and the shell has replaced the substance, it may be enlightening to deep-dive into the roots of our negative qualities and find a surprising guideline for the creation of new horizons. ("Not without my shadow")

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    I had read my way not to knowledge but into an inscrutable oblivion.

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    I love you." Isobel said. Because even if the words could not stop what was coming, they were still her first and sole defense. "I know," Varen surprised her by saying as he turned away. "That's why you're gone.

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    I'm always angry about the death of people who are still alive, their eyes are opened, yet they can't see anything...the spell of ignorance

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    I just wanted to sleep all the time. I had a plan.

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    Hush a-bye my little bird Hush a-bye my child I have lost a love so great Oh, woe is me.

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    In the end, we’ll all face oblivion.

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    Isobel had entrusted the note to Gwen just before Baltimore. And the small scrap of paper still remained her only tangible evidence that Varen had loved her. Expect...he didn't anymore.

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    It always came down to his freaking pride.

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    It can't really be you," he said. "I know it can't." "Why not?" Isobel asked, offering him a rueful smile. "I mean, don't you think it's at all romantic, the idea that love could conquer death?

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

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    Literature is the opiate of the educated masses.

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    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...

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    I’m in love with you, he said quietly. Augustus, I said. I am, he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you. Augustus, I said again, not knowing what else to say. It felt like everything was rising up in me, like I was drowning in this weirdly painful joy, but I couldn’t say it back. I couldn’t say anything back. I just looked at him and let him look at me until he nodded, lips pursed, and turned away, placing the side of his head against the window.

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    ? 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..

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    Memory near oblivion. Far death

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    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.

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

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

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    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.

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    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.

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    Now you go into oblivion.

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

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

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    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.

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    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.

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

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

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    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.

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

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    ...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.

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    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?

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    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

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

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

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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    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.

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

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    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. [...]

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    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

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    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.

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    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?

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    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)