Marcel Proust Quotes

There is only one dream I can guarantee... my death.

Life is but a dream for the dead.

Death is the mother of beauty.

Death is an endless night so awful to contemplate that it can make us love life and value it with such passion that it may be the ultimate cause of all joy and all art.

Certainly people have a lot tougher situations than I've had to deal with. But I will say we are all dying from the moment we are born. This is not just rehearsal.

Among all the vicissitudes of life, which vary in each individual's experience, there is one event which sooner or later comes to everyone - Death!

Life is a predicament which precedes death.

Why should I ask the wise men: Whence is my beginning? I am busy with the thought: Where will be my end?

A lot of people have great hope, and a lot of people who have great hope live. And, some of them who have great hope die. So it's not that hope is going to save you.

It is living and ceasing to live that are imaginary solutions. Existence is elsewhere.

Cinema sustains life. It captures death in its progress.

Death is inevitable, but Life - that's the tricky bit where things happen.

Birth and death; we all move between these two unknowns.

If you haven't understood that if you are born you die, you scarcely deserve to be able to be alive.

There's only two things. There's life, and there's death.

The only certainty life contains is death.

Beauty plus pity-that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.

This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real. Then death comes like dawn, and you wake up laughing at what you thought was your grief.

To live is nothing more than to come here to die, to be what we were before being born, but with apprenticeship, experience, knowledge of cause, and perhaps with will.

Passing away" is written on the world and all the world contains.

Life is but a web spun of ghosts and dreams and illusions.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Someday stars will wind down or blow up. Someday death will cover us all like the water of a lake and perhaps nothing will ever come to the surface to show that we were ever there. But we WERE there, and during the time we lived, we were alive. That's the truth - what is, what was, what will be - not what could be, what should have been, what never can be.

EXISTENCE, n. A transient, horrible, fantastic dream,/ Wherein is nothing yet all things do seem:/ From which we're wakened by a friendly nudge/ Of our bedfellow Death, and cry: "O fudge!"

Nothing is certain, ma petite, not even death." - Jean-Claude