Quotes About Time

The same linguistic structures that allow us to soar through time and space and model entire universes in our heads also enable us to foresee our own mortality. Language also permits us to imagine a self that isn't earthbound and a world beyond death. So far it hasn't offered a way to avoid it.

I once read that the flow of genes through time is like a great river, and individual lives are just eddies in the stream. When an eddy forms, the current is paused for a microsecond, and there we are–an assemblage of many different bits from many different sources–and then the stream pours on, and all those bits go forward in time, except that we no longer travel with them.

History," wrote the researchers, "is always ending today.

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow,Don't stop, it'll soon be here.It'll be better than before,Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone.

But … even if I did – which I didn't – how could I have found them myself, found them old and faded? If I only wrote them down myself – later? How can Sebastian have found them a hundred years ago – if I hadn't even written them yet? And where did the information come from?

The last time Charles saw it, the crown was sitting atop his mother's coffin.

Art is long and life is short.

Or to really care what time it was, in an America where the idea of the future was a form of nostalgia rarely discussed outside of corner bars and neighborhood marijuana dispensaries.

A twenty-minute eulogy, unless composed by a) William Shakespeare, b) Winston Churchill, or c) Mark Twain, is sixteen minutes too long. Technical note: It is better to tell a eulogist to speak for four minutes not five minutes. "Five minutes" to the modern ear sounds like "around five minutes," whereas "four minutes" means "four minutes.

be a natural inclination to pay more attention to time than to outcomes, even when this behavior can hurt us. We might, for example,

Time is a flowing river. Happy those who allow themselves to be carried, unresisting, with the current. They float through easy days. They live, unquestioning, in the moment.

We spend our youth attempting to change the future, he explained, and the rest of our lives trying to preserve the past.

Between our birth and death we may touch understanding, As a moth brushes a window with its wing.

Poetry has the virtue of being able to say twice as much as prose in half the time, and the drawback, if you do not give it your full attention, of seeming to say half as much in twice the time.

JENNET: They also say that I bring back the past; For instance Helen comes Brushing the maggots from her eyes, And, clearing here throat of the dust of several thousand years She says "I loved ..."; but cannot any longer Remember names. Sad Helen. Or Alexander, wearing His imperial cobwebs and breastplate of shining worms Wakens and looks for his glasses, to find the empire Which he knows he put beside his bed.

Thomas, only another Fifty years or so and then I promise to let you go.

They say that I bring back the past; For instance, Helen comes, Brushing the maggots from her eyes, And, clearing her throat of several thousand years, She says 'I loved . . .'; but cannot any longer Remember names. Sad Helen. Or Alexander, wearing His imperial cobwebs and breastplate of shining worms Wakens and looks for his glasses, to find the empire Which he knows he put beside his bed.

My grandfather said the sfumato described a psychological and spiritual transition between states of being. This transition was infinite and that's why we, living in the finite, didn't understand it. Some called it the Void. But that wasn't sfumato. We chased the Smoky Dragon. We rode the dragon. We were the dragon. Finite time was our dance audition. Eternity was opening night.

The Bangkok Comfort Zone - that strip running between Patpong, Soi Cowboy and Nana - was a huge bank of ice, thick as a glacier. Only you had to be around years and years to see and feel the deep chill, and by the time you had it was too late, the glacier had already dragged you under.

All yings are time rats, time bandits. Open their guts and what you find inside their digestive tract are the second and minutes of hundreds of men's lives. Time cannibals. All those broken minute and hour hands just lying undigested in their stomach. It makes me want to drink.

Only tragedies arrived with such urgency in the small hours before dawn.

But shopping, cooking and housework must not be allowed to consume all of one parent's time. Both parents need precious time together with their child.

Every composer knows the anguish and despair occasioned by forgetting ideas which one had no time to write down.

Le temps est un grand professeur, mais malheureusement il tue ses élèves.