Quotes About Time

Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me.

All the bright precious things fade so fast, and they don't come back.

The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day's last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.

Can't repeat the past? he cried incredulously. Why of course you can! He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.

Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.

You're just the romantic age," she continued- "fifty. Twenty-five is too worldly wise; thirty is apt to be pale from overwork; forty is the age of long stories that take a whole cigar to tell; sixty is- oh, sixty is too near seventy; but fifty is the mellow age. I love fifty." - Hildegarde

It eluded us then, but that's no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And then one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay. And just as any period decays in our minds, the things of that period should decay too, and in that way they're preserved for a while in the few hearts like mine that react to them. Trying to preserve a century by keeping its relics up to date is like keeping a dying man alive by stimulants.

In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.

It isn't given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal. A moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.

So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star.

no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . And then one fine morning— So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

It is youth's felicity as well as its insufficiency that it can never live in the present, but must always be measuring up the day against its own radiantly imagined future

It is in the twenties that the actual momentum of life begins to slacken, and it is a simple soul indeed to whom as many things are as significant and meaningful at thirty as at ten years before. At thirty an organ-grinder is a more or less a moth eaten man who grinds an organ - and once he was an organ-grinder! The unmistakable stigma of humanity touches all those impersonal and beautiful things that only youth ever grasps in their impersonal glory.

I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone.

No one should live beyond 30

THE VOICE: (to BEAUTY) Your life on earth will be, as always, the interval between two significant glances in a mundane mirror.

We haven't met for many years, said Daisy, her voice as matter-of-fact as it could ever be. Five years next November. The automatic quality set us all back at least another minute.

It was too late - everything was too late. For years now he had dreamed the world away, basing his decisions upon emotions unstable as water.

To write it, it took three months; to conceive it three minutes; to collect the data in it all my life.

I was thirty. Before me stretched the portentous, menacing road of a new decade.

He wanted to care, and he could not care. For he had gone away and he could never go back anymore. The gates were closed, the sun was down, and there was no beauty left but the gray beauty of steel that withstands all time. Even the grief he could have borne was left behind in the country of youth, of illusion, of the richness of life, where his winter dreams had flourished.

And then, one fairy night, May became June.

But magic must hurry on, and the lovers remain...