Quotes About Time

God, how the young and beautiful vanish and are no more seen.

What larks we had, said James. When? When we were young. I could not recall any larks I had had with James. I poured out the wine and we sat in silence.

All, all of a piece throughout: Thy Chase had a Beast in view: Thy Wars brought nothing about; Thy Lovers were all untrue. 'Tis well an Old Age is out, And time to begin a New. DRYDEN: THE SECULAR MASQUE

The past and present are after all so close, almost one, as if time were an artificial teasing out of a material which longs to join, to interpenetrate, and to become heavy and very small like some of those heavenly bodies scientists tell us of.

That love all belonged to the elapsed moment.

Time, like the sea, unties all knots. Judgments on people are never final, they emerge from summings up which at once suggest the need of a reconsideration. Human arrangements are nothing but loose ends and hazy reckoning

She began to feel that if there had ever been a bus she had by now certainly missed it.

It's not even like memory. It's all just there. All the time, Willy? Every hour, every minute.

Could she endure it, the long vigil of death made visible?

But oh — time has become such a torture, a slow torture. One tries to capture a piece of time that lies ahead and is full of light . . . but thinking about that just makes this awful black time even blacker.

There are violent things in my heart. Perhaps they have been festering there ever since that change . And now I have run in here to find some different pain, some mystery of myself to keep secret, something which, for this short time, is absolutely not Jack.

He wished he was not always young again in his dreams, it made waking up so sad.

She had loved him, she thought now, because, just at that time, she had had to have something else, someone else, to love, a private place for wounded love to go. But that had been, as she had then suspected and now knew, a device, a dream.

time. Some of my friends think that Finn is cracked, but

Like Proust I want to escape from the eternal push and rattle of time into the coolness and poise of a work of art. (Agreeing with Huxley for once, I think it is not what one has experienced, but what one does with what one has experienced that matters. The only possible doctrine of course for one who has experienced remarkably little of the big world!)

Perhaps that was the only time which we should ever, ever have together. Perhaps it was something which would never, never, never come again.

Those were the tortures of the night. The tortures of the day consisted in pretending to eat, pretending to play, pretending to be happy, passing the hours, enduring the sympathetic looks and the loving remarks.

The mysterious awful changes which alter the human face from youth to age may gently dally and delay, then act decisively all at once.

By a dialectic well known to those who habitually succumb to temptation he passed in a second from the time when it was too early to struggle to the time when it was too late to struggle.

The past is gone, it doesn't exist any more.

I remained, leaning a little on her shoulder, my cheek touching her crown of golden hair. It was fading into grey. One day, without having noticed the transition, I would see that it was gold no longer.

Talk to him about more ordinary things. It'll take a bit of time.' 'There isn't much time left, my dear. And no ordinary things. Only last things.

It was too late to go to Gaze now, everyone would be in bed. It was a comforting thought. Whatever was happening it was not happening now. There was nothing he could do now. Sleep was overwhelming him again, great clouds and folds of sleep like a warm fog.

I must have been changing though, and becoming, though I didn't know it, what I am now. I can't have become all this, and there's really a lot of it, in a few days, can I?