Quotes About Time

All the flowers of the spring Meet to perfume our burying; These have but their growing prime, And man does flourish but his time. Survey our progress from our birth: We are set, we grow, we turn to earth.

She and I were twins: And should I die this instant, I had liv'd her time to a minute.

chain. His left wrist held a thick gold Rolex whose

Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry.

As with any new skill, attitude, style, or belief, adopting a coaching ethos requires commitment, practice, and some time before it flows naturally and its effectiveness is optimized.

When he had thought of death before, he had thought of it either as a literary event or as the slow, quiet attrition of time against imperfect flesh.

A man may live like a fool for a year, and become wise in a day.

His mother regarded her life patiently, as if it were a long moment that she had to endure.

Within a month he knew that his marriage was a failure; within a year he stopped hoping that it would improve.

That is the very best time of life, he thought again: when you are very young, when living is a simple, perfect succession of golden days.

When he was much older, he was to look back upon his last two undergraduate years as if they were an unreal time that belonged to someone else, a time that passed, not in the regular flow to which he was used, but in fits and starts. One moment was juxtaposed against another, yet isolated from it, and he had the feeling that he was removed from time, watching as it passed before him like a great unevenly turned diorama.

No seu quadragésimo terceiro ano de vida, William Stoner aprendeu o que outros, muito mais jovens do que ele, tinham aprendido antes de si: que a pessoa que amamos no início não é a mesma pessoa que amamos no fim, e que o amor não é uma meta e sim um processo através do qual uma pessoa tenta conhecer outra.

Soms, ondergedoken in zijn boeken, werd hem duidelijk hoeveel hij nog niet wist, hoeveel hij nog niet gelezen had, en het was gedaan met de sereniteit waarmee hij had gewerkt toen tot hem doordrong hoeveel tijd hij in zijn leven nog had om dat allemaal te lezen, te leren wat hij moest leren.

Stafford was late again, as he had expected he would be late. He signaled the bartender and indicated his empty glass. He burrowed a little more securely in his separate awareness, he nestled a little more deeply into his private darkness, and he waited. In the long run, he thought, that is all one does; wait for people or keep people waiting.

Years afterward, at odd moments, he would look back upon those days that followed his conversation with Gordon Finch and would be unable to recall them with any clarity at all. It was as if he were a dead man animated by nothing more than a habit of stubborn will. Yet he was oddly aware of himself and of the places, persons, and events which moved past him in these few days;

the person one loves at first is not the person one loves at last, and that love is not an end but a process through which one person attempts to know another.

of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realized the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.

One evening, near the end of the time they had together, Katherine said quietly, almost absently, "Bill, if we never have anything else, we will have had this week. Does that sound like a girlish thing to say?" "It doesn't matter what it sounds like," Stoner said. He nodded. "It's true." "Then I'll say it," Katherine said. "We will have had this week.

In seinem dreiundvierzigsten Jahr erfuhr William Stoner, was andere, oft weit jüngere Menschen vor ihm erfahren hatten: dass nämlich jene Person, die man zu Beginn liebt, nicht jene Person ist, die man am Ende liebt, und dass Liebe kein Ziel, sondern der Beginn eines Prozesses ist, durch den ein Mensch versucht, einen anderen kennenzulernen.

Nearly every afternoon, when his classes were over, he came to her apartment. They made love, and talked, and made love again, like children who did not think of tiring at their play. The spring days lengthened, and they looked forward to the summer.

Now they were in the earth to which they had given their lives; and slowly, year by year, the earth would take them. Slowly the damp and rot would infest the pine boxes which held their bodies, and slowly it would touch their flesh, and finally it would consume the last vestiges of their substances. And they would become a meaningless part of that stubborn earth to which they had long ago given themselves.

The past gathered out of the darkness where it stayed, and the dead raised themselves to live before him; and the past and the dead flowed into the present among the alive, so that he had for an intense instant a vision of denseness into which he was compacted and from which he could not escape, and had no wish to escape.

Perhaps we are wiser when we are young, though the philosopher would dispute with me. But I swear to you, we were friends from that moment onward; and that moment of foolish laughter was a bond stronger than anything that came between us later —victories or defeats, loyalties or betrayals, griefs or joys. But the days of youth go, and part of us goes with them, not to return.

Nicolaus of Damascus to Strabo of Amasia: My dear old friend, you have been eminently correct in your descriptions and enthusiasms over the years – this is the most extraordinary of cities in the most extraordinary of times.