Quotes About Time

IT'S NOT FAIR! I CAN'T GO ON HAJJ. I'VE GOT TO GO TO SCHOOL. I DON'T HAVE TIME TO GO TO MECCA. IT'S NOT FAIR! "Welcome to the twentieth century. It's not fair. It's never fair.

free-form conversations that could eat up whole days.

She fears the destination. Be objective! What is the fear? It it something to do with death and time and age. Simply: I am eighteen in my mind I am eighteen and if I do nothing if I stand still nothing will change I will be eighteen always. For always. Time will stop. I'll never die.

this new delicacy, this suggestions of mortal time working on her just as it works on everybody, spoke to me more loudly than any of the old accusations of daughterly neglect ever had.

our memories are getting more beautiful and less real every day.

These are old secrets. They will come out like wisdom teeth when the time is right.)

The fundamental skill of all mothers—the management of time—was beyond her.

In this lengthy riposte, the philosopher informs Paulinus that "learning how to live takes a whole life," and the sense most of us have that our lives are cruelly brief is a specious one: "It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it.

Out of an expanse of time, you carve a little area—that nobody asked you to carve—and you do something. 20

What I have realized, is that the generations,' Samad continued as they sped through miles and miles of unchanging flatlands, 'they speak to each other, Jones. It's not a line, Life is not a line -- this is not palm-reading -- it's a circle, and they speak to us. That is why you cannot read fate; you must experience it.

I can't rid myself of the need to do "something," to make "something," to feel that this new expanse of time hasn't been "wasted.

She let Howard reinvent, retouch. When, on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, Jerome had played his parents an ethereal, far more beautiful version of 'Hallelujah' by a kid called Buckley, Kiki had thought yes, that's right, our memories are getting more beautiful and less real every day.

I felt like some old diary she'd found in a drawer: a reminder of a more innocent and foolish time in her life.

Trying to preserve some space for yourself in the crowded domestic sphere feels like obsessively cupping your hands around thin air. You carve it out, the time you need, after much anxiety and debate, and get into the separate space and look between your hands and there it is — nothing. An empty victory.

Every moment happens twice: inside and outside, and they are two different histories. Outside

What could she know about the waves of time that simply come at a person, one after the other? What could she know about life as the temporary, always partial, survival of that process?

How long that song seemed—longer than life.

Time is compressing for the mother, she has a short distance left to go. She means to squeeze the past into a thing small enough to take with her. It's the daughter's job to listen. She's no good at it.

Watching this manic desire to make or grow or do "something," that now seems to be consuming everybody, I do feel comforted to discover I'm not the only person on this earth who has no idea what life is for, nor what is to be done with all this time aside from filling it.

In Archie's experience anything with a long memory holds a grievance and a pet with a grievance (that time you got the wrong food, that time you bathed me) just isn't what you want.

She measured time in pages. Half an hour, to her, meant ten pages read, or fourteen, depending on the size of the type, and when you think of time in this way there isn't time for anything else

My childhood took place in the widening gap.

Nobody seemed sure if it was the last ferry. We waited. Time passed, the sky turned pink.

I was completely unreachable, for the first time in years. It gave me an unexpected but not unpleasant sense of stillness, of being outside of time: it reminded me somehow of childhood.