Quotes About Time

He had gone in late to see her, but evening hadn't settled and she was presented to him in that long fresh light of waning April days which affects us often with a sadness sharper than the greyest hours of autumn.

I'll marry you, mind you, in an hour. As we were? As we were. But she turned to the door, and her headshake was now the end. We shall never be again as we were!

I never really have believed in the existence of friendship in big societies - in great towns and great crowds. It's a plant that takes time and space and air; and London society is a huge squash, as we elegantly call it - an elbowing, pushing, perspiring, chattering mob.

He found on the spot the image of his recent history; he was like one of the figures of the old clock at Berne. THEY came out, on one side, at their hour, jigged along their little course in the public eye, and went in on the other side. He too had jigged his little course--him too a modest retreat awaited.

The years has touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded; it only hung more quietly on its stem.

Ah, things are always different from what they might be," said the old man. "If you wait for them to change you'll never do anything.

fast ones, if you're impatient." She was silent a little after which she brought out: "Oh I guess it'll be fast enough!

She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might die before she had done so.

The whole past is between them.

ten o'clock!" "What does it matter when my things are put up?" the young man said.  "There's no crowd at this moment; there will be cabins to spare.  I'm waiting for a telegram—that will settle

It was in seeing her that he felt what their interruption had been, and that they met across it even as persons whose adventures, on either side, in time and space, of the nature of perils and exiles, had had a peculiar strangeness. He wondered if he were as different for her as she herself had immediately appeared.

Art is long. If we work for ourselves of course we must hurry. If we work for her we must often pause.

But the blots, Turkey, intimated I. True,-but, with submission, sir, behold these hairs! I am getting old. Surely, sir, a blot or two of a warm afternoon is not to be severely urged against gray hairs. Old age-even if it blot the page-is honorable. With submission, sir, we both are getting old.

This small struggle sprang not a little, in its way, from the same impulse that had now carried him across to Notre Dame; the impulse to let things be, to give them time to justify themselves or at least to pass.

God himself can't change the future and still know what's going to happen.

Everything was for tomorrow, but tomorrow never came. The present was only a bridge and on this bridge they are still groaning, as the world groans, and not one idiot ever thinks of blowing up the bridge.

There will be more calamities, more death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The cancer of our time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are killing themselves.

This is not a book in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty... what you will.

The cancer of time is eating us away

And there is a time, glorious too in its own way, when one scarcely exists, when one is a complete void. I mean, when boredom seems the very stuff of life.

Day by day. No yesterdays and no tomorrows. The barometer never changes, the flag is always at half-mast.

The world around me is dissolving leaving here and there spots of time. The world is a cancer eating itself away.

We live entirely in the past, nourished by dead thoughts, dead creeds, dead sciences. And it is the past which is engulfing us, not the future. The future always has and always will belong to—the poet.

We are swimming on the face of time and all else has drowned, is drowning, or will drown.