Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Remains. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Remains Quotes And Sayings by 96 Authors including Pierre Lemaitre,Justin Murphy,Madison Cawein,Propertius,Kurt Vonnegut Jr. for you to enjoy and share.
After grief, all that remains is barren.
Whilst man still draws breath, still remains intact with but a soul, hope and dreams will stay alive as a light to all who need it.
There are haunters of the silence, ghosts that hold the heart and brain.
There is something beyond the grave; death does not end all, and the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre.
Bodies lay everywhere, in grotesque attitudes of violent death, but manifesting the miracle of life in a snore, a mutter, the flight of a bubble from the lips.
Gone. Vanished. Nothing left. Nothing said.
Souls live on without their bodies. But bodies without souls are nothing but compost.
Now the broken-off parts of her life, the fragments, bits, puzzle pieces, began to fall into place, to assemble themselves, as invariably they do once we are under the enchantment of Death.
Ashes. Ashes, and blood, and nothing more.
For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.
A persistent soul, a divine fulfilment
Nothing is really lost or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form
no object of the world,
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing ...
The body, sluggish, aged , cold
the embers
left from early fires,
... shall duly flame again
Though the body moves, the soul may stay behind.
All of us have mortal bodies, composed of perishable matter, but the soul lives forever: it is a portion of the Deity housed in our bodies
I will find strength in what remains.
The entity that gives life and motion to the human body is finer still and lies infinitely beyond the reach of our finest scientific instruments. When this entity deserts the body, the body is like a ship without a rudder - deserted, motionless, dead.
Only the survivors of a death are truly left alone.
Archaeologists of the soul never return empty-handed.
Just as there are phantom limbs there are phantom histories, histories that are severed and discarded, but linger on as thwarted possibilities an compelling nostalgias.
Leaves hung in the stillness like hands of the newly dead.
But after absolute loss, it still continues." "What?" "You. Consciousness. There is life after hope, you know.
The only thing that lives on is the part that makes everyone they left behind who they are.
They have taught man that he is a hopeless misfit made of two elements, both symbols of death. A body without a soul is a corpse, a soul without a body is a ghost- yet such is their image of man's nature: the battleground of a struggle between a corpse and a ghost, (john Galt)
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.
Century and after century, headstones and grave markers were crafted, marble shrines to lost life and to bodies that could neither see nor touch nor think nor feel, bodies that were respected and appreciated more after death than some ever could have hoped to be in life.
You left ground and sky weeping, mind and soul full of grief. No one can take your place in existence or in absence.
Of dead kingdoms I recall the soul, sitting amid their ruins
So the ghostly figure which has haunted these pages, as it haunted my life, goes down into the impenetrable gloom. Like a shadow she first came to me in the loneliness of the night. Like a shadow she passes away in the loneliness of the dead
The recollected go forth to lives of renunciation. They take no pleasure in a fixed abode. Like wild swans abandoning a pool, they leave one resting place after another.
Your bone shall remain
Your flesh shall remain
Your spirit shall remain
inert and seemingly lifeless.
Things vanished. People vanished. Clouds gave way to sun gave way to night. Only feelings, like spirits, endured, branded to the back of our eyes, laced into our marrow.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
I live my life among the remains of dead people.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
They, who passed away long ago, still exist in us, as predisposition, as burden upon our fate, as murmuring blood, and as gesture that rises up from the depths of time.
In mystery our soul abides.
My soul's the present shadow of a presence gone.
The memory of an absent being kindles in the darkness of the heart; the more it has disappeared, the more it beams; the gloomy and despairing soul sees this light on its horizon; the star of the inner night.
But grief and griever alike endure.
A corpse is what's left after waking too often.
The vessel dies, but the Spirit lives on.
He who wants to recognize what is alive and describe it, seeks first to drive the spirit out of it. Then, he holds the parts in his hands. But missing is the spirit's band.
All that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
The individual man is transitory, but the pulse of life and of growth goes on after he is gone, buried under a wreath of magnolia leaves.
It's only the body that's gone. Only the body. There's a part that doesn't go in the ground, a part that stays inside you forever.
Thought that was perhaps how some ghosts were made; where a will and a purpose had survived, heedless of the frail flesh that fell by the wayside, unable to sustain life long enough.
Bodies devoid of mind are as statues in the market place.
Old ghosts, the shadows of might-have-beens.
We grasp at symbols, talismans, triggers of association to what's forever gone.
There are persons who can speak no more, whose very names have vanished. Yet a name excised from the verge where it once lived still casts its sound on all who sleep there and enters their throats.
In a fleshy tomb I am buried above ground.
After you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on - have found that none of these finally satisfy, or permanently wear - what remains? Nature remains.
Once one has kissed a cadaver's forehead, there always remains something of it on the lips, an infinite bitterness, an aftertasteof nothingness that nothing can erase.
The body was so little a part of him that its final stillness seemed nothing of importance. He was half out of it anyway and death was only a slipping out of it altogether and being at last what he always was, a spirit. We buried the pearly shell upon the mountain top.
The dead have nothing except the memory they've left.
Lifelessness is only a disguise behind which hide unknown forms of life.
Forms disappear, words remain, to signify the impossible.
There is nothing in the world more stubborn than a corpse: you can hit it, you can knock it to pieces, but you cannot convince it.
Death bears with it a stain that seeps into the hollow and fills the mind.
In a fleshly Tomb, I am Buried above ground.
WE CONTINUE TO DWELL AMONG THE LIVING AFTER WE DIE. WE LIVE ON IN MINDS, HEARTS AND LIPS.
Nothing is ever lost nor can be lost; the body aged, sluggish,cold ... the embers left from earlier fires shall dully flame again
One forgets the dead quite quickly; one doesn't wonder about the dead-what is he doing now, who is he with?
The flood subsides, and the body, like a worn sea-shell
emerges strange and lovely.
None of the dead can rise up and answer our questions. But from all they have left behind, their imperishable and dissolving gear, we may perhaps hear voices, which are only now able to whisper, when everything else has become silent.
He lives down in a ribcage in the dry leaves of a heart.
Consumed by the agony of remembrance The remembrance of night's festive company The one remaining candle flickers and dies.
That which is dead doesn't always stay dead....
Extraordinary what the body remembers. The bones loded with love, grief silting the arteries, fear the bowels' recurring mould. Who would have thought mere flesh and blood could hold so much of psyche's ghostly script?
Its name - what passes not away;
They died, leaving behind the kind of void that is never filled, a relentless ache that follows an abandoned child throughout her entire life. And
These bits speak history's tattered tale. How we cling to scraps, shards, sea glass- because we cannot stay.
That thing that's taken refuge there in that zinc bucket, without a wife, a career, a conapt, or money or the possibility of encountering any of these, still persists. For reasons unknown to me its stake in existence is greater than mine.
So little goes with the body of a man. So much is left behind.
Here you lie in the tremendous web. Others are about you, but they are whole - whole hearts and bodies. But all of you that lives is back there walking the desolate seas in evening winds. This thing here, this cold clay thing, is already dead.
Death is a mystery, and burial is a secret.
The memory of most men is an abandoned cemetery where lie, unsung and unhonored, the dead whom they have ceased to cherish. Any lasting grief is reproof to their neglect.
What remains of people is what media can store and communicate.
Memory that yearns to join the centre, a limb remembering the body from which it has been severed, like those bamboo thighs of the god.
Then her mind had wandered into a place she could not follow, taking with it all the people she knew, their names and connections, whether they still lived or whether they'd died. But her body lingered, shed of an inner being, empty as a cicada husk.
but the young dead stay with us, they color our dreams, they make us wonder about ourselves, that we should be so unlucky, or clumsy, or so downright ordinary as to carry on without them. Yet
Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.
O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Where, indeed. Many a badly stung survivor, faced with the aftermath of some relative's funeral, has ruefully concluded that the victory has been won hands down by a funeral establishment - in disastrously unequal battle.
Man is a continuum, a totality and a continuity -
so it cannot be that nothing remains!
Nothing endures, except nothing itself.
How we gentle our losses into paler ghosts.
The Dead are like the stars by day; Withdrawn from mortal eye, But not extinct, they hold their way In glory through the sky.
Her absence is a presence, ghostly and haunting, touching all who knew her. It is impossible that she disappeared, inconceivable that she will never return. She is at once nowhere and everywhere, a constant shadow, elusory and insubstantial, her life an unkept promise, a half-remembered dream.
The people who matter in our lives stay with us, haunting our most ordinary moments.
Meanwhile, we have carved out a place for ourselves among the dead; the glittering pinnacles of commerce rise along the skyline, their foundations sunk in a charnel house; and the lost lie forgotten below us as, overhead, we persaude ourselves that we are immortal and carry on the business of life.
The graveyard is an everlasting resting place.
Bodily decay is gloomy in prospect, but of all human contemplations the most abhorrent is body without mind.
We do not disappear without a trace. We leave a wake that never quite disappears, a gash in time that we so laboriously leave behind us.
Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.
We encounter souls, not bodies.
A body - physical, astral, dead - might be treated as an object, might be adored and hated. So this story has emerged from the material that the body is.
As all things eternal and primordial reappear, so all things mortal return to the earth. Honor, old age, probity, justice, constance, virtue, and gentleness are all gathered into the cold tomb.
This body is a tent which for a space Does the pure soul with kingly presence grace; When he departs, comes the tent-pitcher, Death, Strikes it, and moves to a new halting-place.
A stain. It's all that's left of us when we're gone.