All I kept thinking about, over and over, was 'You can't live forever; you can't live forever.

You can't live forever; you can't live forever.

I can’t live forever. Each time something like this affair lands in my lap, I suddenly recall that I don’t want to live forever.

Do not try to live for ever. You will not succeed.

And now I think about it, I never really wanted to live forever. I just want to live well.

Naturally, there's got to be a limit for I don't expect to live forever, but I do intend to hang on as long as possible.

I hope, or I could not live.

Growing old is natural," growls the old woman. "When you've lived long enough for all your ambitions to be in ruins, friendships broken, lovers forgotten or divorced acrimoniously, what's left to go on for? If you feel tired and old in spirit, you might as well be tired and old in body. Anyway, wanting to live forever is immoral. Think of all the resources you're taking up that younger people need! Even uploads face a finite data storage limit after a time. It's a monstrously egotistical statement, to say you intend to live forever."

Life is too short, or too long, for me to allow myself the luxury of living it so badly.

Human life is limited but I would like to live forever.

But you cant be alive forever, and you always wear out life long before you have exhausted the possibilities of living. And all that must be somewhere; all that could not have been invented and created just to be thrown away. And the earth is shallow; there is not a great deal of it before you come to the rock. And the earth dont want to just keep things, hoard them; it wants to use them again.

I live in fear of being alive.

I could not do this, I realized, if I were immortal. This degree of love of life and of one another is granted, I saw for once and for ever, not to immortals, but to those who live briefly and always under the shadow of death and loss.

I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more — the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort — to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires — and expires, too soon — too soon before life itself.