Quotes About Time

I didn't hear you come in. I was away with the ghosts of my beautiful youth.

I have to ask, Autumn." He reached

Soon someone would say the fatal words, Well, I think it's time for me to go to bed.

The fortnight at Venice passed quickly and sweetly-- perhaps too sweetly; I was drowning in honey, stingless.

She told me later that she had made a kind of note of me in her mind, as, scanning the shelf for a particular book, one will sometimes have one's attention caught by another, take it down, glance at the title page and saying I must read that, too, when I've the time, replace it and continue the search.

I know very few young people, but it seems to me that they are all possessed with an almost fatal hunger for permanence.

Just the place to bury a crock of gold,' said Sebastian. 'I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.

I loved buildings that had grown silently with the centuries, catching the best of each generation while time curbed the artist's pride and the philistine's vulgarity and repaired the clumsiness of the dull workman.

The languor of Youth - how unique and quintessential it is! How quickly, how irrecoverably, lost!

Sometimes," said Julia, "I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there's no room for the present at all.

I rejoiced in the Burgundy. It seemed a reminder that the world was an older and better place than Rex knew, that mankind in its long passion had learned another wisdom than his. By chance I met this same wine again, lunching with my wine merchant in St James's Street in the first Autumn of the war; it had softened and faded in the intervening years, but it still spoke in the pure, authentic accent of its prime, the same words of hope.

It was dead contrary to the common experience of such encounters, when time is found to have built its own defensive lines, camouflaged vulnerable points, and laid a field of mines across all but a few well-trodden paths, so that, more often than not, we can only signal to one another from either side of the tangle of wire.

Faster... Faster... it'll stop all right when the time comes...

A hundred days wasted out of two years and a bit ... a day when you were not in my heart; not a day's coldness mistrust or disappointment. Never that.

More even than the work of the great architects, I loved buildings that grew silently with the centuries, catching and keeping the best of each generation, while time curbed the artist's pride and the Philistine's vulgarity, and repaired the clumsiness of the dull workman.

Just the place to bury a crock of gold. I should like to bury something precious, in every place I've been happy. And then when I was old, and ugly and miserable, I could come back, and dig it up, and remember.

How could I have known? There seemed time for everything in those days; the world was open to be explored at leisure.

Too late, old boy, too late. The saddest words in the English language.

It was dead contrary to the common experience of such encounters, when time is found to have built its own defensive lines, camouflaged vulnerable points, and laid a field of mines across all but a few well-trodden paths, so that, more often than not, we can only signal to one another from either side of the tangle of wire. Here she and I, who were never friends before, met on terms of long and unbroken intimacy

his thoughts, I knew, were far away, in those distant ages where he moved at ease, where time passed in centuries and all the figures were defaced and the names of his companions were corrupt readings of words of quite other meaning.

Only when one has lost all curiosity about the future has one reached the age to write an autobiography.

Mi piacerebbe sotterrare qualcosa di prezioso in ogni posto dove sono stato felice e poi, una volta diventato vecchio brutto e povero, potrei sempre tornare a estrarlo e ricordare.

Rex, in his early forties, had grown heavy and ruddy; he had lost his Canadian accent and acquired instead the hoarse, loud tone that was common to all his friends, as though their voices were perpetually strained to make themselves heard above a crowd, as though, with youth forsaking them, there was no time to wait the opportunity to speak, no time to listen, no time to reply; time for a laugh — a throaty mirthless laugh, the base currency of goodwill.

If everyone at twenty realized that half his life was to be lived after forty…