Quotes About Time

As if my past life was revealed to be a waste, a gesture in slow motion, because what I considered scarce and precious was in fact plentiful and cheap, and what I counted as rapid progress turned out to be glacially slow. The

IBELIEVE IN BLACK HOLES. I believe that as the universe empties into nothingness, past and future will smack together in the last swirl around the drain.

But such memories are woven from gossamer threads; time eats holes in the fabric, and these she must darn with myth and fable.

She remembered, too, how in her first days in Addis, when things had looked so bleak, so terrifying, so tragic with Melly's death—it was at those moments that God's grace came, and that God's plan was revealed, though it was revealed in His time. "I can't see it, Lord, but I know You can

Life, too, is like that. You live it forward, but understand it backward." from CUTTING FOR STONE

His motivation was to rattle the good people of Greenwich mean time, have them raise their heads from their tea and scones, and say, Oh, yes. Africa. For a fleeting moment they'd have the same awareness of us that we had of them.

there's no going back; time and water move on relentlessly.

All sons should write down every word of what their fathers have to say to them. I tried. Why did it take an illness for me to recognize the value of time with him? It seems we humans never learn. And so we relearn the lesson every generation and then want to write epistles. We proselytize to our friends and shake them by the shoulders and tell them, "Seize the day! What matters is this moment!

God's time isn't the same as hers. God's calendar isn't the one hanging in her kitchen.

Ammachi, when I come to the end of a book and I look up, just four days have passed. But in that time I've lived through three generations and learned more about the world and about myself than I do during a year in school. Ahab, Queequeg, Ophelia, and other characters die on the page so that we might live better lives.

But God's time isn't the same as hers. God's calendar isn't the one hanging in her kitchen. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. It's pointless chastising herself for not rescuing her mother sooner. Happened is happened, she thinks. The past is unreliable, and only the future is certain, and she must look to it with faith that the pattern will be revealed.

Life comes from God and life is precious precisely because it is brief. God's gift is time. However much or however little one has of it, it comes from him.

The word "lazaretto" used to refer to a quarantine station where infectious patients could be isolated, but over time it came to mean a leprosy hospital.

I am so behind that yesterday catches up with tomorrow.

such memories are woven from gossamer threads; time eats holes in the fabric, and these she must darn with myth and fable. The

What did it matter? We are dying while we are living. We are old even when we're young. We are clinging to life even as we resign ourselves to leaving it.

The few weeks I have had at my disposal have not given me the chance to revive and to work through my old memories in such a way that I might offer you a solid introduction into the psychic life of Indians.

Jean made the seventies seem like some weird, mystical time, like a Redneck Camelot.

There are so many people who've come before us, arrows and wagon wheels, obsidian tools, buffalo. Look out at the meadow, you can almost see them, generations dissolved in the bluegrass and hay. I want to try and be terrific. Even for an hour.

Annie Dillard once wrote, "How we spend our days is of course how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and that one is what we are doing." I think about this a lot when I'm planning my day and what sort of pleasure I might suck out of its marrow during these tumultuous times of constant upheaval and war. Sometimes that means noticing even the most mundane of tasks in order to know we are alive, that we are living.

The dog does this beautiful thing, it waits. It stills itself and determines that the waiting is essential.

Mercy is not frozen in time, but flits about frantically, unsure where to land.

Perhaps we are hurtling our bodies towards the thing that will obliterate us, begging for love from the speeding passage of time...

this day's singular existence in time, the native field flourishing selfishly, only for itself.