Quotes About Time

All those years and their moments— Crackling bacon, slamming car doors, Poems tried out on friends, Will be one more archive, One more shaky text.

I have lived at Cold Mountain These thirty long years. Yesterday I called on friends and family: More than half had gone to the Yellow Springs. Slowly consumed, like fire down a candle; Forever flowing, like a passing river. Now, morning, I face my lone shadow: Suddenly my eyes are bleared with tears.

In the mountains it's cold. Always been cold, not just this year. Jagged scarps forever snowed in Woods in the dark ravines spitting mist. Grass is still sprouting at the end of June, Leaves begin to fall in early August. And here I am, high on mountains, Peering and peering, but I can't even see the sky.

The philosophy of poetry must acknowledge that the poetic act has no past, at least no recent past, in which its preparation and appearance could be followed.

One must always maintain one's connection to the past and yet ceaselessly pull away from it. To remain in touch with the past requires a love of memory. To remain in touch with the past requires a constant imaginative effort.

recalling Bachelard's comment on poetic time in The Poetics of Reverie: "In reverie we re-enter into contact with possibilities which destiny has not been able to make use of.

D'autres amours viendront bien entendu se greffer sur les premières forces aimantes. Mais toutes ces amours ne pourront jamais détruire la priorité historique de notre premier sentiment. La chronologie du cÅ"ur est indestructible.

En la vida hay que acostumbrarse a todo, incluso a la eternidad.

Y, como creía en el enfado de dos enamorados, se alejó encogiéndose de hombros y expresando de forma solapada la piedad que sentía por unos jóvenes que perdían en vanas disputas las horas que el buen Dios les ha permitido pasar en la tierra.

Then why waste your time here with me? You clearly love him! Your fears, your terror, all of that is still born of love, and the love of the most exquisite kind, the kind one does not even admit to oneself

It was one of those kinds of looks that changes meaning with time and place.

Christianity, in contrast, is for all cultures. This is a theme of the New Testament, St. John's vision of the redeemed in Revelation 7. Christianity is for every tribe, every nation, every language, every time, for every culture. That's really quite unique from other religions because Christ died for the sins of the world.

We are all serving time on death row; only the length of our stay is indeterminate. Dead people, walking. If our lives are to be fulfilling, we must be grateful for the experience alone.

Life is essentially a fatal disease of indeterminate duration.

Time turns our lies into truths.

We have treatments for disturbed persons, Nicholas. But, at least for the time being, we have no treatment for disturbing persons.

Time itself is a thing, so it seems to me, that stands solidly like a fence of iron palings with its endless row of years; and we flow past like Gyoll, on our way to a sea from which we shall return only as rain.

Time turns our lies into truth

And it came to me that these trees had been hardly smaller when I was yet unborn, and had stood as they stood now when I was a child playing among the cypresses and peaceful tombs of our necropolis, and that they would stand yet, drinking in the last light of the dying sun, even as now, when I had been dead as long as those who rested there.

Have you never thought as you read that months may lie between any pair of words?)

Before I had so much as opened any of the other volumes, I felt that pressure of time that is perhaps the surest indication we have left childhood behind.

There is no category of human activity in which the dead do not outnumber the living many times over. Most beautiful children are dead. Most soldiers, most cowards. The fairest women and the most learned men—all are dead.

But I was awake, sitting by the window looking down at the trailer and Mr. Zoltan's truck. I could not sleep. That is how it is with folks my age. We take naps during the day, and then we cannot sleep at night. I think that it is because God is getting us ready for the grave. Is that right? Did He ever tell you? (The Little Stranger)

Knowledge is soon changed, then lost in the mist, an echo half-heard.