Quotes About Time

Gondold csak el, mennyire szeretsz most – suttogta Nicole. – Nem kérem, hogy mindig így szeress, csak azt akarom, hogy ezt sose felejtsd el. Valahol bennem mindig ott él majd az a személy, aki ma este vagyok.

His day, usually a jellylike creature, a shapeless, spineless thing, had attained Mesozoic structure. It was marching along surely, even jauntily, towards a climax, as a play should, as a day should.

Anthony for the moment wanted fiercely to paint her, to set her down now, as she was, as with each relentless second she could never be again. 'What were you thinking?' she asked. 'Just that I'm not a realist,' he said, and then: 'No, only the romanticist preserves the things worth preserving.

Sometimes she speaks of 'the past' as people speak who have been in prison. But you never know whether they refer to the crime or the imprisonment or the whole experience.

Age will go     Back to the old—       For all our tears         We shall not know.

Bizler ak?nt?ya kar?? gemilerimizi ilerletmeye çal???rken, hiç durmadan geçmiÅŸe çekiliyorduk asl?nda.

Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy--one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.

The drink made past happy things contemporary with the present, as if they were still going on, contemporary even with the future as if they were about to happen again.

Everything was hallowed by the haze of his own youth.

For him time stood still and then every few years accelerated in a rush, like the quick re-wind of a film, but for Nicole the years slipped away by clock and calendar and birthday, with the added poignance of her perishable beauty.

Sometimes, when he was particularly loquacious, she went to sleep in his arms, but he loved that Rosalind—all Rosalinds—as he had never in the world loved any one else. Intangibly fleeting, unrememberable hours.

And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

I wouldn't ask too much of her," I ventured. "You can't repeat the past." "Can't repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!

In 1913, when Anthony Patch was twenty-five, two years were already gone since irony, the Holy Ghost of this later day, had, theoretically at least, descended upon him.

Thirty - the promise of a decade of loneliness, a thinning list of single men to know, a thinning brief-case of enthusiasm, thinning hair. But there was Jordan beside me who, unlike Daisy, was too wise ever to carry well-forgotten dreams from age to age. As we passed over the dark bridge her wan face fell lazily against my coat's shoulder and the formidable stroke of thirty died away with the reassuring pressure of her hand.

A man can be twice young in the life of his sons only.

I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside of me there will always be the person I am tonight.

Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. 'Why of course you can!

What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon,' cried Daisy, 'and the day after that, and the next thirty years?' 'Don't be morbid,' Jordan said. 'Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther... and one fine morning- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. 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.

I wouldn't ask too much of her,' I ventured. 'You can't repeat the past.' 'Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. 'Why of course you can!

We're getting old,' said Daisy. 'If we were young we'd rise and dance.

The thin tunes, holding lost times and future hopes in liaison, twisted upon the Valais night.