Quotes About Time

He tried to let her know it would be all right. Eventually. Life wouldn't always be this painful. The world wouldn't always be this brutal. Give it time, little one. Give it another chance. Come back.

She picked up her book and tried to read but it was heavy in her hands. She struggled to hold it, wanting to finish the story, wanting to know how it ended. She was afraid she'd run out of time before she ran out of book.

it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you.

Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one, great, long room. Everyone we ever met, and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past they'd continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud, obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions even years later.

Do you know what I've learned, after three decades of death?" Gamache asked, leaning toward the agent and lowering his voice. Despite himself, the agent leaned forward. "I've learned how precious life is.

He knew time could heal. But it could also do more damage. A forest fire, spread over time, would consume everything.

Patience. Patience. With patience comes choice, and with choice comes power.

Plenty of time for a close friendship to turn to hate. As only a good friendship could. The conduit to the heart was already created.

There was nothing like the pain of the present to cure the pain of the past.

Sometimes life goes in a direction not of our choosing. That's why we need to adapt. It's never too late o change direction… [Gamache] knew the young minister was wrong, sometimes it was too late.

A loss like this was a progression of miseries, like stepping-stones. Until they reached the other side. The new continent. Where the terrible reality lived, and the sun never fully came out again. But where, with time and help, they might find acceptance and, with that, peace.

The funny thing about murder is that the act is often committed decades before the actual action. Something happens, and it leads, inexorably, to death many years later. A bad seed is planted. It's like those old horror films from the Hammer studios, of the monster, not running, never running, but walking without pause, without thought or mercy, toward its victim. Murder is often like that. It starts way far off.

The morning after their deaths, Armand had gone into their room. The scent of them, the sense of them, almost too much to bear. The clothing. The book. The bookmark. The bedside clock, still ticking. He'd thought that strange. Surely it should have stopped.

And this was what a couple of that age looked like. If they were lucky.

In time, it wasn't all that long ago, but measured in events, it was an eternity.

Our secrets make us sick because they separate us from other people. Keep us alone. Turn us into fearful, angry, bitter people. Turn us against others, and finally against ourselves. A murder almost always began with a secret. Murder was a secret spread over time. Gamache

Which was why, Gamache knew, it was vital to be aware of actions in the present. Because the present became the past, and the past grew. And got up, and followed you.

Time, it covered over everything eventually. Events, people, memory. Chiniquy had disappeared beneath Time.

Clara knew that grief took a terrible toll. It was paid at every birthday, every holiday, each Christmas. It was paid when glimpsing the familiar handwriting, or a hat, or a balled-up sock. Or hearing a creak that could have been, should have been, a footstep. Grief took its toll each morning, each evening, every noon hour as those who were left behind struggled forward. Clara wasn't sure

He sat quietly for a moment, lost in what was now and forever the past. The scene he described would never be repeated. That overheard sound would never be heard again.

El tiempo, pensó Gamache al salir a la oscuridad, lo cubría todo tarde o temprano. Acontecimientos, personas, recuerdos.

Living our lives was like living in a long house. We entered as babies at one end, and we exited when our time came. And in between we moved through this one, great, long room. Everyone we ever met, and every thought and action lived in that room with us. Until we made peace with the less agreeable parts of our past they'd continue to heckle us from way down the long house. And sometimes the really loud, obnoxious ones told us what to do, directing our actions even years later. Gamache

he wondered whether it was always the young who were brave. And the old grew fearful and cowardly. Was

And now it is now, and the dark thing is here.