Quotes About Time

Cada dia é um peso, é preciso matar o tempo, descobrir um jeito de não pensar, pois o pensamento dói, e vem uma vontade de beber, uma vontade de esquecer, uma vontade de morrer...

a sua alma sabe o que merece ser lembrado. Esquecem-se do que aconteceu ontem, mas se lembram do que aconteceu há muito tempo, como se fosse hoje. Minha alma tem estado a visitar a minha infância. Fantasias.

A beleza nostálgica do sol que se põe é uma dádiva dos olhos de quem a vê como quem vê pela última vez. Os olhos dos poetas são sempre olhos que se despedem.

Não há razões para a alegria. Ela é uma fonte da eternidade que emerge no tempo.

só temos o momento. Não percam o agora.

a celebração de mais um ano de vida é a celebração de um desfazer, um tempo que deixou de ser, não mais existe.

momentos de amor leve com as pessoas que amo, e uma infinidade de cenas, como se fossem fotografias, que ficaram gravadas na minha memória. Quando eu morrer, vão se perder. Mas não quero que se percam. Tenho de dá-las para alguém que tome conta delas. Aí me vem a aflição por escrever. Quando escrevo, estou lutando contra a morte. A morte das coisas que o meu amor ajuntou e que vão se perder quando eu morrer.

Juventud divino tesoro Ya te vas para no volver Quando quiero llorar no lloro Y a veces lloro sin querer

Every future turns into the past. The richness of your past dictates what you are today. It's not your decision what you are today, but what you will be tomorrow. This is where a part of your decision comes into play.

To move from poverty to middle class or middle class to wealth, an individual must give up relationships for achievement (at least for some period of time). The issue is time; there is not enough time to have both.

Anxiety about the future never profits; we feel no evil until it comes, and when we feel it, no counsel helps; wisdom is either too early or too late.

As one gets older, it happens that in the morning one fails to remember the airplane trip to be taken in a few hours or the lecture scheduled for the afternoon.

Every great narrative contains its end in its beginning and its beginning in its end,

It would be an error to wish to spread Christianity from a center in Asia, where other peoples are still settled, and Buddhism would be equally false for the European population. No religious view is right if it is not suited to the innermost needs of the time, and such a view will never be able to give a cultural impulse.

Ultima came to stay with us the summer I was almost seven. When she came the beauty of the llano unfolded before my eyes, and the gurgling waters of the river sang to the hum of the turning earth. The magical time of childhood stood still, and the pulse of the living earth pressed its mystery into my living blood.

I was drinking beer to kill time, the erotic and sensitive Mexican time which is so different from the clean-packaged, well-kept time of the Americanos. Time in Mexico is at times cruel and punishing, but it is never indifferent. It permeates everything, changes reality. Einstein would have loved Mexico because there time and space are one. I stare more often into empty space when I'm in Mexico.

A day, whether six or seven ago, or more than six thousand years ago, is just as near to the present as yesterday. Why? Because all time is contained in the present Now-moment.

That was my big realization twenty years ago. It all passes. Here I am at the bathroom door, and how can I ever get to the sink? How can high school ever end, how can I ever finish college, how can I ever be married? But then I'm at the sink, I'm back out the door, I have a Ph.D., I'm married with three kids, and twenty years have passed. Here I am alive, and how can I ever die? But I will, I know I will, I know it in my soul.

Fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run.

Funny how the new things are the old things.

This is a brief life, but in its brevity it offers us some splendid moments, some meaningful adventures.

The Shapiras brought me the book "The Road to Miltown" by S.J. Perelman, and I still have it. It's moved with me across the country, put up in innumerable bookshelves, for almost fifty years. It's showing signs of wear. (Hell, so am I, but we're both still good to take to bed.)

How can I know anything about the past or the future, when the light of the Beloved shines only Now.

If these poems repeat themselves, then so does Spring.