Quotes About Time

Shard by shard we are released from the tyranny of so-called time. A curtain of purple wisteria partially conceals the entrance to a familiar garden... In a wink, a lifetime, we pass through the infinite movements of a silent overture.

We needed time to figure out what all of this meant, how we were going to come to terms and redefine what our love was called. I learned from him that often contradiction is the clearest way to truth.

Some things melt before they become memories.

Perhaps there is no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory.

Time to travel, to acquiesce to fate.

Without realizing it, I had said goodbye to traditional employment. I never punched a clock again. I made my own time and my own money.

Thank you, I said. I have lived in my own book. One I never planned to write, recording time backwards and forwards.

Despite all efforts, February just slips away, though being a leap year there is one extra day to observe.

The act of writing in real time in order to deflect, escape, or slow it down is obviously futile yet not entirely fruitless.

We want things we cannot have. We seek to reclaim a certain moment, sound, sensation. I want to hear my mother's voice. I want to see my children as children. Hands small, feet swift. Everything changes. Boy grown, father dead, daughter taller than me, weeping from a bad dream. Please stay forever, I say to the things I know. Don't go. Don't grow.

Through it all we held fast to the concept of the clock with no hands. Tasks were completed, sump pumps manned, sandbags piled, trees planted, shirts ironed, hems stitched, and yet we reserved the right to ignore the hands that kept on turning.

I commenced with my chores, whistling an oft-forgotten tune, certain that we, as the seasons, prevail and that ten thousand years is yet a blink in the eye of a ringed planet or that of an archangel armed with a sword of glass.

Certain books I loved and lived within yet cannot remember.

There was no time real or otherwise at the Arcade and we could sit for hours with a handful of stragglers, spinning words or content within commiserating silence.

Perhaps there is no past or future, only the perpetual present that contains this trinity of memory. — Patti Smith, M Train (Alfred A. Knopf, 2015)

I tried to write something about Jesse but couldn't, as her face echoed her father's and the proud palace where the ghosts of our old life dwell.

Such things that disappear in time that we find ourselves longing to see again. We search for them in close-up as we search for our hands in a dream.

Shard by shard we are released from the tyranny of so-called time.

Please stay forever I say to the things I know. Don't go. Don't grow.

In the beginning was real time. A woman enters a garden that is bursting with color. She has no memory, only a burgeoning curiosity. She approaches the man. He is not curious. He stands before a tree.

I believe in movement. I believe in that lighthearted balloon, the world. I believe in midnight and the hour of noon.

I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it.

He began testing me immediately by issuing a string of obscene and racially repellent references that morphed into paranoiac conspiracy rants. - Look, you're wasting your time, I said. I can be just as repellent as you, only about different subjects.

It's our decade, he said.