Quotes About Time

BUT, alas, the heart forgets; the heart is distracted; and Maytime passes; summer ends; the storms break over the rot-ripe orchards and the heart grows old; while the hours, the days, the months, and the years pile up and pile up, till the mind becomes too crowded, too confused: dust gathers in it; cobwebs multiply; the walls darken and fall into ruin and decay; the memory perishes...

Shouldn't we rather recognize that each person is a sort of unconscious anthology of all epochs of man; and that he may at times be moving simultaneously among different epochs?

an English girl might well believe that time is how you spend your love.

time is how you spend your love ...

Time is how you spend your love. From his poem The Last Saturday In Ulster

Our terminal decline into old age and death stems from the fine print of the contract that we signed with our mitochondria two billion years ago.

there isn't a full consensus among experts. But strip away a few more skins from the onion of time and, by 3,400 million years ago

Bacteria dominated our planet for another 2,500 million years before the first truly complex organisms appeared in the fossil record.

There were three things that could fundamentally change a person: time, alcohol, and managing a bureaucracy.

They ease, I suppose, and smooth away a little and become a part of your life's pattern. The sharp edges do get dulled in time..." "But every so often something will catch you," Holly said. "A memory, a place, a thought, and for that one moment the grief will be as sharp and terrifying as it ever was.

Dogs own space and cats own time.

Yes, he was leaving, but he'd told her repeatedly that they would find a way to make it work. and yes, it was true that they didn't know each other well, but considering the short time they'd been together, he'd learned enough to know that he could love her forever. all they needed was a chance.

Every year, the memories I have of my father become more faint, unclear, and distant. once they were vivid and true, then they became like photographs, and now they are more like photographs of photographs.

There is a fallacy that the powerful emotion of youth mellows with time. Not true. One learns to control and suppress it. But it doesn't lessen. It simply hides and concentrates itself in more discreet places. When one accidentally stumbles into one of these abysses, the pain is spectacular.

All my life I have arrived early only to find myself standing self-consciously on a corner, outside a door, in an empty room, but the closer I get to death the earlier I arrive, the longer I am content to wait, perhaps to give myself the false sensation that there is too much time rather than not enough.

Sometimes I forget that the world is not on the same schedule as I. That everything is not dying, or that if it is dying it will return to life, what with a little sun and the usual encouragement. Sometimes I think: I am older than this tree, older than this bench, older than the rain. And yet. I'm not older than the rain. It's been falling for years and after I go it will keep on falling.

These things are lost to oblivion like so much about so many who are born and die without anyone taking the time to write it all down. That Litvinoff had a wife who was so devoted is, to be frank, the only reason anyone knows anything about him at all.

I read differently now, more painstakingly, knowing I am probably revisiting the books I love for the last time. (245)

It would mark the end of a year that he might look back on as hands, a pivot between two lines. Or not: maybe enough time, would pass that eventually he would look back on his life, all of it, as a series of events both logical and continuous.

There's a hurried intensity in the strokes--you can see where he scratched into the wet paint with the end of the brush. It's as if he knew there wasn't much time left. And yet, there's a serenity in his face, a sense of something that's survived its own ruin.

Every year, the memories I have of my father become more faint, unclear, and distant. once they were vivid and true, then they became like photographs, and now they are more like photographs of photographs. But sometimes, at rare moments, a memory of him will return to me with such suddenness and clarity that all the feeling I've pushed down for years springs out like a jack-in-the-box.

And he isn't crying for her, not for his grandma, he's crying for himself: that he: too, is going to die one day. And before that his friends wil die, and the friends of his friends, and, as time passes, the children of his friends, and, if his fate is truly bitter, his own children. (58)

Atunci am v?zut-o. E ciudat ce poate urzi mintea când inima o îmboldeÈ™te. Ar?ta altfel decât mi-o aminteam eu. ?i totuÈ™i. Era aceeaÈ™i. Ochii: aÈ™a am recunoscut-o. Mi-am spus: "Vas?zic? aÈ™a È›i se arat? îngerul. Oprit la vârsta la carea te-a iubit cel mai mult.

I thought: I didn't live forever.