Quotes About Time

Something was approaching from beyond the shrub-lined bend. His stream of consciousness fell still. His was now the passive eye of the hunter, discerning everything before it without reflection. His breathing slowed even further. Time ceased to exist. Now .

Go ahead and smirk. These things are not always a mere function of time

And the Scythe of Time has no power in this corner of the heart.

Sequence and order, time and stress-they are most important in this matter. Allow me to savor the drama of the event in safe retrospect. I see me punctured and all of you gathered round. Ah! what I would not give to witness the tableau! Could you possibly describe for me the expression in each face?" "I'm afraid their faces were my least concern at the time.

Debit me, one Memento Mori

Time had changed the magical to mundane

Hahnji, mister, you must be patient. Before you can name that corner, our future must become past.

Depression is a red herring, said Nariman. I think a lot about the past, it's true. But at my age, the past is more present than the here and now. and there is not much percentage in the future.

Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl's hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.' He sighed and smiled sadly. 'But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

Time, the ultimate grandmaster that could never be checkmated. There was no way out of its distended belly.

Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be recreated – not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.

If time were a bolt of cloth ... I would cut out all the bad parts. Snip out the scary nights and stitch together the good parts, to make time bearable. Then I could wear it like a coat, always live happily.

The future was becoming past, everything vanished into the void, and reaching back to grasp for something, one came out clutching - what? A bit of string, scraps of cloth, shadows of the golden time. If one could only reverse it, turn the past into future, and catch it on the wing, on its journey across the always shifting line of the present ...

Flirting with madness is one thing. But when madness starts flirting back, its time to call the whole thing off.

Time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

Murad muttered that everything had to wait till he was older, and at this rate there would be so much piled up for him to do, there would be no time for it all.

What an unreliable thing is time—when I want it to fly, the hours stick to me like glue. And what a changeable thing, too. Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl's hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair." He sighed and smiled sadly. "But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.

Time is the twine to tie our lives into parcels of years and months. Or a rubber band stretched to suit our fancy. Time can be the pretty ribbon in a little girl's hair. Or the lines in your face, stealing your youthful colour and your hair.' He sighed and smiled sadly. 'But in the end, time is a noose around the neck, strangling slowly.' A clutter of troublesome feelings filled

This endured absence is nothing more or less than forgetfulness. I am, intermittently, unfaithful. This is the condition of my survival.

Am I in love? - Yes, since I'm waiting. The other never waits. Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game: whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely: I am the one who waits.

The Photograph is an extended, loaded evidence — as if it caricatured not the figure of what it represents (quite the converse) but its very existence ... The Photograph then becomes a bizarre (i)medium(i), a new form of hallucination: false on the level of perception, true on the level of time: a temporal hallucination, so to speak, a modest (o)shared(i) hallucination (on the one hand 'it is not there,' on the other 'but it has indeed been'): a mad image, chafed by reality.

In front of the photograph of my mother as a child, I tell myself: she is going to die: I shudder, like winnicott's psychotic patient, over a catastrophe which has already occurred. Whether or not the subject is already dead, every photograph is this catastrophe.