Quotes About Time

They started with Big Ben. It's always got to be relayed direct from Westminster, the real thing, never from disc. That's got to be firmly fixed in the listeners' minds. Then, if Big Ben is silent, the public will know that the war has taken a distinctly unpleasant turn.

La antigüedad no es lo mismo que el interés histórico —dijo—. De lo contrario, nosotros dos seríamos más interesantes de lo que somos.

But time giving to wishing for what can't be is not only spent, but wasted, and for all that we waste we shall be accountable.

But there is something else which I have written and which I want to read to you while I still have time,' Fritz told Karoline. 'It will not truly exist until you have heard it.' 'Is

I never told her the other story, in which she stars, in which she is always the heroine – a romanticized story full of cliché images in which I am telling her all the things there has not been enough time for, in which we are doing all the things there has not been time for…

You have this comet trail of your own lived life, sparks from which arrive in the head all the time, whether you want them or not - life has been lived but it is still all going on, in the mind for better and for worse.

So now we are young still but a better sort of young.

He felt marvellously conscious of the moment, of here and now, of this day.

And Rose knows that dictionaries will never be the same again. Dictionaries will be forever imbued, sanctified, significant, suggestive. They will not be just themselves, but this moment, these moments, being here, like this, in this place, her and him, in this now. She will always have this now, tethered to Collins and Chambers and the Shorter Oxford.

Time and the universe lie around in our minds. We are sleeping histories of the world.

She saw the shadows of her children, young again, playing on that tree. And now to be here with him. You cross your own path.

She's been surprised by weather, these last weeks. By its versatility and by the grandeur of its effects... A primitive and elemental form of time untamed by Greenwich or the Gregorian calendar.

To be completely ignorant of the collective past seems to me to be another state of amnesia; you would be untethered, adrift in time. Which is why all societies have sought some kind of memory bank, whether by way of folklore, story-telling, recitation of the ancestors--from Homer to Genesis. And why the heritage industry does so well today; most people may not be particularly interested in the narrative of the past, in the detail or the discussion, but they are glad to know that it is there.

Matt only knew that he was entirely happy, wholly in love, and that years of this rolled ahead, waiting for him.

And when you and I talk about history we don't mean what actually happened, do we? The cosmic chaos of everywhere, all time? We mean the tidying up of this into books, the concentration of the benign historical eye upon years and places and persons. History unravels; circumstances, following their natural inclination, prefer to remain ravelled.

The regrets of old age are polarized: you wish you had not done certain things--behaved thus, responded like that--and you wish you had seized more of the day, been greedier, packed more in.

You plot, daily. Face down circumstance. Measure out your life with...not coffee spoons--pills. Line them up with breakfast, lunch, supper. Never mind mermaids, and lilacs in bloom, and all that stuff. He hadn't a clue.

I have been reading history all my life, and am sharply aware that I know very little. I have an exaggerated respect for historians--certain historians; they seem to me grounded in a way that most of us are not, possessed of an extra sense by virtue of access to times and places when things were done differently. They have--can have--heightened perception.

One thing old age does is play tricks with time. Time

He sees that time is what we live in, but that it is also what we carry within us. Time is then, but it is also our own perpetual now.

Chronology irritates me. There is no chronology inside my head. I am composed of a myriad of Claudias who spin and mix and part like sparks of sunlight on water.

All my life, she thought, I have let things pass me by.

time marches on, as children grow and develop and mutate, as adults accommodate or fester or rejoice.

She asks to hold the baby, and enjoys the feel of her solid little body, new-minted, ready to grow and to go. She thinks of her own, which is time visible. She is walking proof that time is real, time exists, she is a demonstration of the power of time. And this is a story that will indeed end. But not for a while, she thinks, not for a while.