Quotes About Time

She wasn't a bird in a cage. A bird in a cage, when the cage is opened, can still fly away. She was a bird embroidered onto a screen — a white bird in clouds of gold stitched onto a screen of melancholy satin. The years passed; the bird's feathers darkened, mildewed, and were eaten by moths, but the bird stayed on the screen even in death.

You meet the one you meet amongst thousands and tens of thousands of people, amidst thousands and tens of thousands of years, in the boundless wilderness of time, not a step sooner, not a step later. You chance upon each other, not saying much, only asking softly, "Oh, you are here, also?

Her broken sentences hung in midair like the pendulums of several clocks, each ticking along at a different speed, each following its own logic and reaching its own conclusions, each rising up at a different moment, each hammering its bell at a different time....

The times are rushing ahead. This has already caused damage, and there is still more destruction to come. One day, human civilization... will be a thing of the past.

The moon of thirty years ago has gone down long since and the people of thirty years ago are dead but the story of thirty years ago is not yet ended—can have no ending.

Watching the fragments float by for years.

Time passes. That's for sure.

The poet's life is just so much crenellated waste, nights and days whipping swiftly or laboriously past the cinematic window. We're hunched and weaving over the keys of our green our grey or pink blue manual typewriter maybe a darker stone cold thoritative selectric with its orgasmic expectant hum and us popping pills and laughing over what you or I just wrote, wondering if that line means insult or sex. Or both. Usually both.

What I started to understand was that the poem was made out of time–past, present and future. It lives in the present, it breathes there and that's how you let anyone in. I think people can feel this accessing of time in poetry very readily. As soon as the poem ceases to be about anything, when it even stops saving things, stops being such a damn collector, it becomes an invite to the only refuge which is the impossible moment of being alive.

those special times with him

Whether you're driving a car or playing basketball, churning out a report or researching torts, the ability to get in the groove so that you're working with time instead of against it is key to peak productivity.

the same kind of answers the stars are always trying to give us, she thought, when we look up and up at them. So high above, speaking in gradual whispers about time, about their own flaming hearts and the endless cold that lies between…

Do you need me? Always, but not immediately.

SAN Diego slid from July into August like a baker slides a fresh sheet of cookies into the oven—quick and smooth, with the new panful of days set to cook up crisp.

Remember this: the only way to live is to live—and death is always, always, part of living. We die over and over. Oh, the big death comes but once, but a thousand deaths arrive with every turn of the seasons—the death of a day or a lover, of a friend or a dream, death piled upon death. The slow sundering of years parts us even from who we once were and from the memories which parented us. Live anyway.

Love was like smell, Rule thought. Smell was the most complex and dimensional of the senses, weaving together past and present, near and distant, motion and stillness. Love, too, was a weaver.

We aren't guaranteed the time we think we need to mend fences with those we love.

Mike wished Mr. Burden had chosen another time to be murdered. He was beginning to see that the hour of dressing for dinner might have been expressly designed for persons who need a quiet spell for the commission of crime.

He died January twenty-eighth, the seventh day from the time that he took to his bed, at nine o'clock in the morning, after partaking of the holy communion, in the seventy-second year of his age and the forty-seventh of his reign [Jan 28].

But I just want a little more time to be angry. My hands still feel jittery from fear and fury but now i'm supposed to manage forgiveness. Or else I'm the monster.

I'm almost a full-time mom.

So I step into the future, as bravely as I'm able, with my heart longing for a time I'll never see again.

Live life like Janus, the two faced gods of the gate, look at past and at the same time the future. Not to remember past hurts and failures but to enable you get to the future

Here's the thing about time: If you can't make the most out of any given moment, then you don't deserve a single extra second.