Quotes About Routine

Early to bed and early to rise...makes a man stupid and blind in the eyes.

the clock said 0340, and Ender felt groggy as he padded along the corridor behind Mazer. "Early to bed and early to rise," Mazer intoned, "makes a man stupid and blind in the eyes.

He knew from experience that a day like this could drag on and the only thing he would have to look forward to was for it to get dark so he could go to sleep and wait for tomorrow to come around.

They get up early, because they have so much to do, and go to bed early, because they have so little to think about.

He was a prisoner to the calendar, he realised, as we all were. He thought in little boxes that were to be ticked off and filled with things to do. Almost every day he thought back to what he had been doing ten years ago, twenty years ago, further. He lived in the past, by his diary. He was a history man, his head full of dead leaves. It was a form of reassurance, he knew. There were too many roads into the future and he didn't like not having a map for it. (Wait)

Avevo un lavoro dalle 9 alle 5. O meglio, dalle otto alle quattro. Poi le cose capitano come capitano. Non te lo chiedono prima. Non ti chiedono il permesso.

Üç hafta önce s?radan bir vatandaÅŸt?m. Dokuz-sekiz aras? çal???yordum. Daha doÄŸrusu sekiz-dört. Bir olay oldu mu oluyor iÅŸte. Sana sormuyor ve iznini istemiyor.

He ate the last of the eggs and wiped the plate with the tortilla and ate the tortilla and drank the last of the coffee and wiped his mouth and looked up and thanked her.

Victor," he asked, "what do adults do all day?" "Work," Victor answered, "eat, shop, pay bills, use the phone, read newspapers, drink coffee, sleep.

She was forty-five minutes late to work that day, but she had toast for breakfast. Goddamnit.

People can numb themselves, get used to anything.

William had to be at his office at eight, so his mother got up at seven o' clock to prepare him. He was usually late, or on the verge of lateness. But nothing could hurry him.

There was nothing now but this empty treadmill of what Clifford called the integrated life, the long living together of two people, who are in the habit of being in the same house with one another. Nothingness! To accept the great nothingness of life seemed to be the one end of living. All the many busy and important little things that make up the grand sum-total of nothingness!

He toasted his bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread; then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunks with a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy.

Mr. Pappleworth arrived, chewing a chlorodyne gum, at about twenty to nine, when all the other men were at work.

This is why everyday life—daily routine—is very important for us. It can let us be free from time.

Monotony reveals our limitations.

What has habit been doing to me?

Home may be where the heart is but it's no place to spend Wednesday afternoon.

Once you left Easterly, you saw the world was full of these people: ticket sellers, snack bar clerks. They assumed they were better than you just because they knew their own routines.

Mr. Nord, bald and boring, sold equipment to hospitals and was gone a lot on overnight trips. Mrs. Nord wore eye shadow and headbands that matched her shell tops and Bermudas. For lunch she made us foods she'd seen in the pages of her women's magazines: baked hot dogs coated in crushed Special K; English muffin pizzas; Telstar coolers (lemonade and club soda afloat with a toothpick-speared maraschino cherry—a sort of edible satellite that jabbed your lip as you drank).

On Friday Ma came timidly out to the pool wearing her beach robe. In her hands she held her equipment: cup of tea, cigarettes, nasal spray. She struggled with the gate, walked up to the water, and dunked her big toe. "Cold," she said.

I pursue you where none else has pursued you; Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustomed routine; if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me. —Walt Whitman, from "To You," Leaves of Grass (Simon Schuster, August 1st 2006) Originally published July 4th 1855.

The distracted person, too, can form habits.