Ozymandias Quotes

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Ozymandias" I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Like vanishing dew, a passing apparition or the sudden flash of lightning -- already gone -- thus should one regard one's self.

And on the pedestal these words appear:
 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!' 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
 Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
 The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Dan, I'm not a Republic serial villain. Do you seriously think I'd explain my master-stroke if there remained the slightest chance of you affecting its outcome? I did it thirty-five minutes ago.

Don't weep, insects -- Lovers, stars themselves, Must part.

Ozymandias controls not only the dead, but the living. He works the dark magics, and it is said he knows the paths between the worlds and walks them without fear. He wields the-" "Stop! In English, okay?"" "In English?" she asked, throwing the empty wineglass into the picnic basket. Riley nodded. "You're in serious shit.

How everything you ever love will reject you or die. Everything you ever create will be thrown away. Everything you're proud of will end up as trash. I am Ozymandias, king of kings.

Listen, O lord of the meeting rivers, things standing shall fall, but the moving ever shall stay.

The disciplines of physical exercise, meditation and study aren't terribly esoteric. The means to attain a capability far beyond that of the so-called ordinary person are within the reach of everyone, if their desire and their will are strong enough. I have studied science, art, religion and a hundred different philosophies. Anyone could do as much. By applying what you learn and ordering your thoughts in an intelligent manner it is possible to accomplish almost anything. Possible for an 'ordinary person.' There's a notion I'd like to see buried: the ordinary person. Ridiculous. There is no ordinary person.

There is beauty that soothes like the warm kiss of the spring sun upon the cheek, and then there is beauty that terrifies, like the cry of Ozymandias, inviting despair.

Abyssinias "I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: A huge four-footed limestone form Sits in the desert, sinking in the sand. Its whiskered face, though marred by wind and storm, Still flaunts the dainty ears, the collar band And feline traits the sculptor well portrayed: The bearing of a born aristocrat, The stubborn will no mortal can dissuade. And on its base, in long-dead alphabets, These words are set: "Reward for missing cat! His name is Abyssinias, pet of pets; I, Ozymandias, will a fortune pay For his return. he heard me speak of vets -- O foolish King! And so he ran away.

I did it thirty-five minutes ago.

There is the buried language and there is the individual vocabulary, and the process of poetry is one of excavation and of self-discovery. Tonally the individual voice is a dialect; it shapes its own accent, its own vocabulary and melody in defiance of an imperial concept of language, the language of Ozymandias, libraries and dictionaries, law courts and critics, and churches, universities, political dogma, the diction of institutions. Poetry is an island that breaks away from the main.

Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!

At least Ozymandias had a statue erected in his name. If I were to have died at that moment, the only thing I had managed to erect in my honor was a shrine to China’s manufacturing capabilities.

Rorschach: You know we can't let you do that Adrian Veidt: Do? Do what Rorschach? I'm not a comic book villain. Do you seriously think I would explain my master stroke to you if there were even the slightest possibility you could affect the outcome? I triggered it 35 minutes ago.

I spur my horse past the ruined city; the ruined city, that wakes the traveler's thoughts: ancient battlements, high and low; old grave mounds, great and small. Where the shadow of a single tumbleweed trembles and the voice of the great trees clings forever, I sigh over all these common bones -- No roll of the immortals bears their names.

The hubris that attends all political programs of central planning is fueled by an ignorance of the forces of chaos.

How everything you ever love will reject you or die. Everything you ever create will be thrown away. Everything you’re proud of will end up as trash. I am Ozymandias, king of kings.

Well, well, thought Herzog, he shouldn’t have sent me to school to learn about dead emperors. “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: /Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” But self-sufficiency and solitude, gentleness, it all was so tempting, and had sounded so innocent, it became smiling Herzog so well in the description. It’s only later you discover how much viciousness is in these hidden heavens.

Podróżnik, wracający z starożytnej ziemi, Rzekł do mnie: „Nóg olbrzymich z głazu dwoje sterczy Wśród puszczy bez tułowia. W pobliżu za niemi Tonie w piasku strzaskana twarz. Jej wzrok szyderczy, Zacięte usta, wyraz zimnego rozkazu Świadczą, iż rzeźbiarz dobrze na tej bryle głazu Odtworzył skryte żądze, co, choć w poniewierce, Przetrwały rękę mistrza i mocarza serce. A na podstawie napis dochował się cało: «Ja jestem Ozymandias, król królów. Mocarze! Patrzcie na moje dzieła i przed moją chwałą Gińcie z rozpaczy!» Więcej nic już nie zostało... Gdzie stąpić, gruz bezkształtny oczom się ukaże I piaski bielejące w pustyni obszarze.

As the creators of sophisticated technologies, we have made ourselves increasingly machine-like; robotic servants of institutional systems we have been conditioned to revere, whose purposes we neither understand nor control, and of which we are afraid to ask questions. Our corporate-state world plunders, enslaves, controls and destroys us, all in the name of advancing our liberty and material well-being. Most of us are dominated by an unfocused fear of uncertainty, a longing for the security of emptiness.

Ozymandias” Mısır’da Luxor yakınlarındaki II. Ramses’in cenaze tapınağında yıkılmış bir heykelden esinlenilmiştir. Antik çağ tarihçisi Diodorus’a göre heykelde bir zamanlar şu sözler yazılıydı: “Kralların Kralıyım, Ben Ozymandias. Her kim benim ne kadar haşmetli olduğumu ve nerede yattığımı bilirse, eserlerimden birini geçmesine izin verin.

Western Civilization is in the crisis it is because we have sacrificed more profound values than the immediate and quantifiable consequences we tend to associate with the pursuit of our material interests. Among these are peace; liberty; respect for property, contracts, and the inviolability of the individual; truthfulness and the development of the mind; integrity; distrust of power; a sense of spirituality; and philosophically-principled behavior. But when our culture becomes driven by material concerns, these less tangible values recede in importance, and our thinking becomes dominated by the need to preserve the organizational forms that we see as having served our interests.

nonce-word,

beware, whilst you assume the softness of the dove, to forget not the cunning of the serpent.

Modern society is in a state of turbulence brought about, in large part, by political efforts to maintain static, equilibrium conditions; practices that interfere with the ceaseless processes of change that provide the fluctuating order upon which any creative system—such as the marketplace—depends. Institutions, being ends in themselves, have trained us to resist change and favor the status quo; to insist upon the certain and the concrete and to dismiss the uncertain and the fanciful; and to embrace security and fear risk. Life, on the other hand is change, is adaptation, creativity, and novelty. But creativity has always depended upon a fascination with the mysterious, and an appreciation for the kinds of questions that reveal more than answers can ever provide. When creative processes become subordinated to preserving established interests; when the glorification of systems takes priority over the sanctity of individual lives, societies begin to lose their life-sustaining vibrancy and may collapse.

Things always come back into balance, though, right? Eventually.” Dad goes very still, eerily so considering his disease. “Eventually. Balance came back in 1918 after twenty million deaths. It came back in 1945 after seventy million. It’s getting the pendulum back to the midpoint that’s the killer. And right now it’s being pushed hard right, all around the world. The last gasp of Ozymandias—once more, with feeling.

The origins of any productive system seem to be traceable to conditions in which the self-interest driven purposes of individuals are allowed expression. These include the respect for autonomy and inviolability of personal boundaries that define liberty and peace and allow for cooperation for mutual ends. Support for such an environment has led to the flourishing of human activity not only in the production of material well-being, but in the arts, literature, philosophy, entrepreneurship, mathematics, spiritual inquiries, the sciences, medicine, engineering, invention, exploration, and other dimensions that fire the varied imaginations and energies of mankind.

If there are no reasons to suppose that we have existed before that period at which our existence apparently commences, then there are no grounds for supposing that we shall continue to exist after our existence has apparently ceased.

In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is poetry; and to be a poet is to apprehend the true and the beautiful, in a word, the good which exists in the relation, subsisting, first between existence and perception, and secondly between perception and expression. Every original language near to its source is in itself the chaos of a cyclic poem: the copiousness of lexicography and the distinctions of grammar are the works of a later age, and are merely the catalogue and the form of the creations of poetry.

Individuals build empires because they want their names to echo through time. They build massive constructs of stone and steel so that their descendants will remember the people who created the world that they only live in. There were buildings on Earth that were thousands of years old, sometimes the only remaining evidence of empires that thought they would last forever. Hubris, the professor had called it. When people build, they are trying to make an aspiration physical. When they die, their intentions are buried with them. All that’s left is the building. [Ozymandias syndrome, anyone? Ed.]

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: “My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!” Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

The problem with all of this, as historians advise us, is that the institutionalization of the systems that produce the values upon which a civilization depends, ultimately bring about the destruction of that civilization. Arnold Toynbee observed that a civilization begins to break down when there is “a loss of creative power in the souls of creative individuals,” and, in time, the “differentiation and diversity” that characterized a dynamic civilization, is replaced by “a tendency towards standardization and uniformity.” The emergence of a “universal state,” and increased militarism, represent later stages in the disintegration of a civilization.

Incontrai un viandante di una terra dell'antichità, Che diceva: “Due enormi gambe di pietra stroncate Stanno imponenti nel deserto… Nella sabbia, non lungi di là, Mezzo viso sprofondato e sfranto, e la sua fronte, E le rugose labbra, e il sogghigno di fredda autorità, Tramandano che lo scultore di ben conoscere quelle passioni rivelava, Che ancor sopravvivono, stampate senza vita su queste pietre, Alla mano che le plasmava, e al sentimento che le alimentava: E sul piedistallo, queste parole cesellate: "Il mio nome è Ozymandias, re di tutti i re, Ammirate, Voi Potenti, la mia opera e disperate! Null'altro rimane. Intorno alle rovine Di quel rudere colossale, spoglie e sterminate, Le piatte sabbie solitarie si estendono oltre confine.

I really should simplify my existence. How much trouble is a person required to have? I mean, is it an assignment I have to carry out? It can’t be, because the only good I ever knew of was done by people when they were happy. But to tell you the truth, Kayo, since you are the kind of guy who will understand it, my pride has always been hurt by my not being able to give an account of myself and always being manipulated. Reality comes from giving an account of yourself, and that’s the worst of being helpless. Oh, I don’t mean like the swimmer on the sea or the child on the grass, which is the innocent being in the great hand of Creation, but you can’t lie down so innocent on objects made by man,” I said to him. “In the world of nature you can trust, but in the world of artifacts you must beware. There you must know, and you can’t keep so many things on your mind and be happy. ‘Look on my works ye mighty and despair!’ Well, never mind about Ozymandias now being just trunkless legs; in his day the humble had to live in his shadow, and so do we live under shadow, with acts of faith in functioning of inventions, as up in the stratosphere, down in the subway, crossing bridges, going through tunnels, rising and falling in elevators where our safety is given in keeping. Things done by man which overshadow us. And this is true also of meat on the table, heat in the pipes, print on the paper, sounds in the air, so that all matters are alike, of the same weight, of the same rank, the caldron of God’s wrath on page one and Wieboldt’s sale on page two. It is all external and the same. Well, then what makes your existence necessary, as it should be? These technical achievements which try to make you exist in their way?” Kayo said, not much surprised by this, “What you are talking about is moha—a Navajo word, and also Sanskrit, meaning opposition of the finite. It is the Bronx cheer of the conditioning forces. Love is the only answer to moha, being infinite. I mean all the forms of love, eros, agape, libido, philia, and ecstasy. They are always the same but sometimes one quality dominates and sometimes another.

If a man jumped as high as a louse (lice), he would jump over a football field. In Ancient Egypt, the average life expectancy was 19 years, but for those who survived childhood, the average life expectancy was 30 years for women and 34 years for men. The volume of the moon is equivalent to the volume of the water in the Pacific Ocean. After the 9/11 incident, the Queen of England authorized the guards to break their vow and sing America’s national anthem for Americans living in London. In 1985, lifeguards of New Orleans threw a pool party to celebrate zero drownings, however, a man drowned in that party. Men and women have different dreams. 70 percent of characters in men’s dreams are other men, whereas in women its 50 percent men and 50 percent women. Men also act more aggressively in dreams than women. A polar bear has a black skin. 2.84 percent of deaths are caused by intentional injuries (suicides, violence, war) while 3.15 percent are caused by diarrhea. On average people are more afraid of spiders than they are afraid of death. A bumblebee has hairs on its eyes, helping it collect the pollen. Mickey Mouse’s creator, Walt Disney feared mice. Citarum river in Indonesia is the dirtiest and most polluted river in the world. When George R R Martin saw Breaking Bad’s episode called “Ozymandias”, he called Walter White and said that he’d write up a character more monstrous than him. Maria Sharapova’s grunt is the loudest in the Tennis game and is often criticized for being a distraction. In Mandarin Chinese, the word for “kangaroo” translates literally to “bag rat”. The first product to have a barcode was a chewing gum Wrigley. Chambarakat dam in Iraq is considered the most dangerous dam in the world as it is built upon uneven base of gypsum that can cause more than 500,000 casualties, if broken. Matt Urban was an American Lieutenant Colonel who was nicknamed “The Ghost” by Germans because he always used to come back from wounds that would kill normal people.

A graveyard of gods spreads out before us as we sit on our high seats and look out over the sands of time, littered with the half-sunk and crumbling visages of every Odin and Ozymandias.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Call them all the children of Ozymandias if you wish. They will be forgotten soon and before the tides of sand erase their names, we’ll have more like them. We are the wizards behind the curtain, Rand. The rest are mere puppets, players on a stage and all that rabble.

Florence had forgotten how easy schoolwork was. She wanted to have enough homework so she wouldn’t be forced to get a job after school, and found that she had to ask for it. After being in class for only three days, she impressed the teacher, Miss Greer, by electively memorizing the poem “Ozymandias.” Miss Greer let her take home an old dictionary, and the following week Florence finished second in the class spelling bee. She had been positive that the word “ingress” had an “e” at the end. It sure seemed like something that word would do, she explained. “Perhaps you’ll be a teacher yourself one day,” Miss Greer replied. Hearing someone believe that she had a future in something besides cleaning houses or cleaning dishes made her want to cry, and she didn’t want the other kids to see that. She left the room so quickly she forgot to even say thank you, and sat in the outhouse, and wept.

Nothing in the world, I said, absolutely nothing, can give you a sense of purpose, a vocation, or an objective. That is something transcendent in its immanence. The clues are out there, in your life: what makes your heart tremble, what makes your throat dry, what gets you out of bed every day. Like a detective, you will need to gather all these signs, these pieces, and assemble your own puzzle. This doesn't happen in a day; sometimes it takes a lifetime. Sometimes, it takes many lives within one. You will need to search, talk to yourself, reflect, converse with others, with more mature and wiser people, create your own philosophy – and it never ends. Life doesn't end, that's the beauty and the strangest part of existence. We are never ready, never complete. The aspiration to be complete is a novice’s mindset. All those who have ever aspired to eternity, and despaired, eventually understood this. Just like the man who, reading Shelley’s verses and contemplating the statue of Ozymandias and its desolation, grasped what I’m talking about. Life justifies itself.

But a werewolf is a man that chages into a wolf. I’ve never done that. Honest I haven’t.” “A mammal,” Said Ozymandias, “is an animal that bears its young and suckles them. A virgin is nonetheless a mammal. Because you have never changed doesn’t make you less of a werewolf.” “But a werewolf-“ Suddenly Wolfe’s eyes lit up. “A werewolf is better than a G-man!

Life has its own ways of teaching us, its being & it got its ups & downs but We hold the decisions to accept what Life throws at us & We're Life itself.Whatever we stand to change, gives us a life that was chosen.So whatever We choose to be or want, need or aspire; We're sure the benefactors of such Life & We got to be responsible for whatever comes with it.We got to sacrifice almost everything for the kind of life We want & need.We got to always understand that there're pains attached to it.We got to be bruised no matter what, wounded in other to be moulded & mounted on a larger milestone of a desired dream and life of goodness.So Wherever we find ourselves then, We don't quit or give excuses for not moving forward.We just have to embrace the results & stories and then Push On to Rewriting a Matchless story,With Resounding results.The truth is, We were Given this Life, to decide what's best for Us & in it lies death. Death is, not wanting to try but accepting that- It's Over.As a result of this, Possibility Neurons Die & guess what, Failure of self & being,Failure of will comes with it.We're the architects of Our lives, however We see it, Life runs in the directions of Our Choices.

Ozymandias was Miss Rose's elderly smoke grey Persian. Like all Persians, he had a look of chronic discontent and contempt for society on his flat face, but Hunter knew that he'd be likely to be wildly affectionate before her visit was over. He just needed to take his own time about it.

The human in the long run is always momentary.

Ψυχῆς ἰατρεῖον “A House of Healing for the Soul.” (in reference to a bookstore)

OZYMANDIAS I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand,

It passes away like the end of a day, like a toddler’s first goldfish, like a leaf in the autumn, like grandparents, like fruit flies, like memories, like a flower that’s been picked, like childhood and youth, like Ozymandias, like a worm that gets eaten by a bird that gets caught by a cat that gets hit by a car, like starving children across the world, like everything. The days weave together, a million tiny moments that I despise or savour or simply notice one at a time as I fall deeper and deeper into silence and into God, which is just another word for Love.

How everything you ever love will reject you or die. Everything you ever create will be thrown away. Everything you’re proud of will end up as trash. I am Ozymandias, king of kings.

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley Ozymandius I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.