We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to… Continue reading Tom Stoppard
Comparing what we’re looking for misses the point. It’s wanting to know that makes us matter. Otherwise we’re going out the way we came in. That’s why you can’t believe in the afterlife, Valentine. Believe in the after, by all means, but not the life. Believe in God, the soul, the spirit, the infinite, believe… Continue reading Tom Stoppard
Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood, when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever. It must have been shattering, stamped into one’s memory. And yet I can’t remember it. It never occurred to me at all. We… Continue reading Tom Stoppard
We cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered. —Tom Stoppard, Rosencratz and Guildenstern Are Dead, (Grove Press; Reprint edition January 21, 1994) Originally published 1966.
Death followed by eternity the worst of both worlds. It is a terrible thought. ― Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. (Grove Press; Reprint edition January 21, 1994) Oribinally published 1966.