Quotes About Time

The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order.

It is memory that is the somnambulist. It will come back in its wounds from across the world, like Phil, calling us by our names and demanding its rightful tears. It will never be impervious. The memory can be hurt, time and again -- but in that may lie its final mercy. As long as it's vulnerable to the living moment, it lives for us, and while it lives, and while we are able, we can give it up its due.

It was in a place where the days would go by and surprise anyone that they were over.

For all of them told happenings like narrations, chronological and careful, as if the ear of the world listened and wished to know surely.

My father did not bring it up, but of course I knew that he had another reason to worry about my decision to write. Though he was a reader, he was not a lover of fiction, because fiction is not true, and for that flaw it was forever inferior to fact. If reading fiction was a waste of time, so was the writing of it. Why is it, I wonder, that humor didn't count? Wodehouse, for one, whom both of us loved, was a flawless fiction writer.

Was now the time to look forward to the doom of parting, and stop looking back at the doom of meeting?

Learning stamps you with it's moments. Childhood's learning is made up of moments. It isn't steady. It's a pulse.

It might be if he had not appeared the way he did appear that day she would never have looked so closely at him, but the time people come makes a difference.

He seemed to give the changes his same, kind recognition--to accept them because they had to be only of the time being, even to love them, even to laugh sometimes at their absurdity

What occupied his full mind was time itself; time passing: he was concentrating

She felt as though in death her father had been asked to bear the weight of that raised lid himself, and hold it up by lying there, the same way he'd lain on the hospital bed and counted the minutes and the hours to make his life go by. She stood by the coffin as she had by his bed, waiting it out with him.

The memory is a living thing—it too is in transit. But during its moment, all that is remembered joins and lives—the old and the young, the past and the present, the living and the dead.

How to explain Time and Separateness back to God, Who had never thought of them, Who could let the whole world come to grief in a scattering moment?

We haven't the time to take our time.

I ought not to have stirred, I was swept into the dance, caught up in the whirling movement of things. Being in Time means running after the present. You run after things, you run with things, you flow away.

I can't stick it. Perhaps it's my liver. I feel I've aged. Of course, I'm not exactly young any more. Still, to feel like this . .

I am sad when I think that the years go by like sacks that we mark Returned Empty, sad when I think that we shall be separated from one another and from ourselves.

SpuneÅ£i repede, domnule, c? n-am vreme. Eu sînt la odihn?.

Is all this an image of time? Everything disintegrates before our very eyes.

The past is the present, isn't it? It's the future too.

Then in the spring something happened to me. Yes, I remember. I fell in love with James Tyrone and was so happy for time.

Only the past when you were happy is real.

He recites sardonically from Rossetti. "Look in my face. My name is Might-Have-Been; I am also called No More, Too Late, Farewell.

Lo único que envejecen son nuestras vidas. Donde estamos, los siglos solo son como segundos, y después de vivir mil vidas, nuestros ojos empiezan a abrirse.