Quotes About Time

I read in desperate snatches in the interstices of the Quotidian, and dream of finding three uninterrupted quiet hours to think, moon, mentally maunder, and, above all, write. I am pursued by an anti-Muse; her name is Life. Her homely multisyllabic surname is often left unenunciated, but to certain initiates it may be whispered: Exigency.

Admittedly, there is always a golden age, the one not ours, the one that once was or will someday be. One's own time is never satisfactory, except to the very rich or the smugly oblivious.

Because she fears the past she distrusts the future — it, too, will turn into the past.

It's never been today before.

When a daring idea first crosses one's mind, if it is to be realized in the future it is often appealing. Then, as the time for its execution comes nearer, one begins to dread that which had once been anticipated.

We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.

It is closing time in the gardens of the West and from now on an artist will be judged only by the resonance of his solitude or the quality of his despair.

Young writers if they are to mature require a period of between three and seven years in which to live down their promise. Promise is like the mediaeval hangman who after settling the noose, pushed his victim off the platform and jumped on his back, his weight acting a drop while his jockeying arms prevented the unfortunate from loosening the rope. When he judged him dead he dropped to the ground.

The artist secretes nostalgia around life.

Contemporary books do not keep. The quality in them which makes for their success is the first to go; they turn over night. – Cyril Connolly

We are nothing like the gods. We will never be remembered for the time we attempted the waltz on our balcony, as the stars blinked drowsily, the moon like a frozen yawn. Even with one of us gone, would not the mind of the other reveal its universe, its constellation of memories like a field of flickering candles, the same face at the center of every flame?

I am not my own friend. Time cuts me in two.

Most distinguished voyager, what was your eon like? —Comic. Terror is forgotten. Only the ridiculous is remembered by posterity. Death from a wound, from a noose, from starvation Is one death, but folly is uncounted and new every year.

I said so little. Days were short. Short days. Short nights. Short years. I said so little. I couldn't keep up. My heart grew weary From joy, Despair, Ardor, Hope. The jaws of Leviathan Were closing upon me. Naked, I lay on the shores Of desert islands. The white whale of the world Hauled me down to its pit. And now I don't know What in all that was real.

When, after a long life, it falls out That he takes on a form he had sought And every word carved in stone Grows its hoarfrost, what then? Torches Of Dionysian choruses in the dark mountains From when he comes. And half of the sky With its snaky clouds. A mirror before him. In the mirror the already severed, perishing Thing.

Queremos comprender, creemos que si vivimos lo bastante vamos a comprender el mundo; dentro de una hora, mañana, dentro de un año,... Pero quizá no importe nada comprender o no.

Å»yjesz tu, teraz. Hic et nunc. Masz jedno ?ycie, jeden punkt. Co zd??ysz zrobi?, to zostanie, Cho?by ktoÅ› inne mógÅ' mie? zdanie.

For instance, despite all our knowledge, we still associate the word "journey" with separation and speed.

May the gentle mountains and the bells of the flocksRemind us of everything we have lost,For we have seen on our way and fallen in loveWith the world that will pass in a twinkling.

O my love, where are they, where are going The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder. [from Encounter]

Si tan solo fuera posible detener un solo instante lo que ocurre en todas partes, congelarlo, contemplarlo como encerrado en una bola de crista, aislándolo del instante anterior y del instante posterior, y transformar así el hilo del tiempo en el océano del espacio. Pero no.

poetry has always been for me a participation in the humanly modulated time of my contemporaries.

Most people, looking back at their childhood, see it as a misty country half-forgotten or only to be remembered through an evocative sound or scent, but some episodes of those short years remain clear and brightly coloured like a landscape seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.