A Quote by James Salter

The death of kings can be recited, but not of one's child. — © James Salter
The death of kings can be recited, but not of one's child.

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My songs were influenced not so much by poetry on the page but by poetry being recited by the poets who recited poems with jazz bands.
One must never compromise with tyrants. One can only strike at kings through the head. Nothing can be expected from European kings except by force of arms. I vote for the death of the tyrant.
That’s what death did, it treated you like a child, like everything you had ever thought and done and cared about was just a child’s game, to be crumpled up and thrown away when it was over. It didn’t matter. Death didn’t respect you. Death thought you were bullshit, and it wanted to make sure you knew it.
Life is expressed in a perpetual sequence of changes. The birth of the child is the death of the baby, just as the birth of the adolescent is the death of the child.
Death comes for us all. Even for kings he comes.
Kings ought never to be seen upon the stage. In the abstract, they are very disagreeable characters: it is only while living that they are 'the best of kings'. It is their power, their splendour, it is the apprehension of the personal consequences of their favour or their hatred that dazzles the imagination and suspends the judgement of their favourites or their vassals; but death cancels the bond of allegiance and of interest; and seen AS THEY WERE, their power and their pretensions look monstrous and ridiculous.
Kings kill; clowns don't; therefore the clowns of the kings are more valuable than the kings!
And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
If a child washed his hands, he could eat with kings.
I don't know anything about being a royal child. But I have played Shakespearian kings.
Pale Death beats equally at the poor man's gate and at the palaces of kings.
Pale death, with impartial step, knocks at the hut of the poor and the towers of kings.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered; for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Those who approach life like a child playing a game, moving and pushing pieces, possess the power of kings.
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