Quotes About Time

Things happen in front of you. That's perhaps the most wonderful and mysterious aspect of photography. It seemed like you just had to decide when and where to aim the camera. The process was linear and it never stopped. That's still true, although I've traded in my need for always taking pictures. I can't let them go by sometimes now and just be there.

Jetzt bleibt ihm nur noch er Tod, doch der lässt auf sich warten, weil Mahmoud ein Gewohnheitstier ist und sich daran ewöhnt hat, am Leben zu sein.

It's a sin for Lily to let Mercedes think it was Daddy who beat up Frances. But he has done it in the past. Surely truth can be borrowed across time without perishing. Shelf life, so to speak.

Then she kissed me in that way that makes me hate time.

Times like this become memories almost instantly, part of a gilded past that somehow coexists with the present. Remember whens to look back on even as they are happening, bittersweet and aglow with sunshine fading to sepia—the late September dust suspended in the wake of a passing car, leafy smell in the air, blue sky reflected in his sunglasses.

Put the kettle on. Look out the kitchen window. Love that remains.

A los hijos no les hace ninguna gracia el estrés que el padre o la madre traen de su trabajo. Lo que desean y necesitan es su presencia. Desean que sus padres les dediquen tiempo.

WE ALMOST NEVER think of the present, and when we do, it is only to see what light it throws on our plans for the future.1 These are Pascal's words, and it is easy to see how perceptive he was about the virtual nonexistence of the present, consumed as we are by using the past to plan what-comes-next, a moment away or in the distant future. That

Our movements through time and space seem somehow trivial compared to a heap of boiled meat in broth, the smell of saffron, garlic, fishbones and Pernod.

What are our expectations? Which of the things we desire are within reach? If not now, when? and will there be some left for me?

So I didn't have time to craft artful lies and evasions even if I'd wanted to.

Because I know, I think, how it happened. One sells one's soul in increments, slowly, over time. First, it's a simple travel show ('Good for the book!'). Next thing you know, you're getting dry-humped by an ex-wrestler on the Spice Channel. I

The tone of the repartee was familiar, as was the subject matter, a strangely comfortable background music to most of my waking hours over the last two decades or so - and I realised that, my God... I've been listening to the same conversation for twenty-five years!

Get your sorry ass down to Saint Vincent's, they've got a fast emergency room. Get yourself stitched up and get yourself back here in two fucking hours!

But where I itty now, O my brothers, is all on my oddy knocky, where you cannot go. Tomorrow is all like sweet flowers and the turning vonny earth and the stars and the old Luna up there. ... And all that cal.

Life's only choosing when to die. Life's a big postponement because the choice is so difficult. It's a tremendous relief not to have to choose.

Well, everything's a lesson, isn't it? Learning all the time, as you could say.

Put it off for a bit. All life is putting off. Well, not entirely.

You'd lay there after you'd drunk the old moloko and then you got the messel that everything all around you was sort of in the past.

One can die but once. Dim died before he was born.

Every dogma has its day.

Wedged as we are between two eternities of idleness, there is no excuse for being idle now.

History is a wheel. This sort of world can't go on for ever either.

Time remains the enemy; history must be spatialized. How? By seeing it as a circle, a wheel perpetually turning, the same events recurring again and again.