Quotes About Time

Every part of me is a vague nostalgia neither for the past nor for the future: the whole of me is a nostalgia for the anonymous, prolix, unfathomable present.

The sweetness of the past? Our memory of it, since to remember it is to make it present, and it isn't present nor ever can be – absurdity, my love, absurdity.

Hours of ashen wit, days of spatial longing, inner centuries of outer landscapes … And we did not ask ourselves what it was for, because we took pleasure in knowing that it wasn't for anything.

We were so tenuous and slight that the wind's passing left us prostrate, and time's passage caressed us like a breeze grazing the top of a palm.

La dulzura del pasado? El recordarlo, puesto que recordarlo es hacerlo presente y no lo es ni ya lo puede ser —el absurdo, mi amor, el absurdo.

there's novelty and there's the boredom of the eternally new, and the latter brings about the death of the former.

El propio vivir es morir, porque no tenemos un día más en nuestra vida en que no tengamos, por ello, un día menos.

In order to write this, I plucked the souls from all the flowers, and out of the ephemeral moments of all the songs of all the birds I wove eternity and stagnation.

I have enough money to buy food and drink, I have somewhere to live and enough free time in which to dream, write - and sleep - what more can I ask of the gods or hope for from fate? I had great ambitions and extravagant dreams, but so did the errand boy and the seamstress, for everyone has dreams; the only difference is the whether or not we have the strength to fulfil them or a destiny that will fulfil them through us.

What I was and will never be again! What I had and will never have again!

Which of us turning to look back down the road along which there is no return, could say that we had walked that road as we should have?

I pass times, I pass silences; formless worlds pass by me.

They went by like rubbish in a river, in the river of life ...

They all have, like me, their future in the past.

Patsai gyvenimas yra mirimas, nes n?ra n? dienos, kuri jo nedaryt? viena diena trumpesnio.

A swinging pendulum, back and forth, forever moving to arrive nowhere, eternally captive to the twin fatality of a centre and a useless motion.

Eu amo tudo o que foi Eu amo tudo o que foi, Tudo o que já não é, A dor que já me não dói, A antiga e errônea fé, O ontem que dor deixou, O que deixou alegria Só porque foi, e voou E hoje é já outro dia.

I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist. I paced from one side of the room to the other, dreaming out loud incoherent and impossible things – deeds I'd forgotten to do, hopeless ambitions haphazardly realized, fluid and lively conversations which, were they to be, would already have been.

Dias são dias, e noites São noites e não dormi... Os dias a não te ver As noites pensando em ti.

Ä°lerde bir gün gelecek olanlar daha ÅŸimdiden yaÅŸl?yd?; sadece hiç gelmeyecek olanlar gençti.

Like happiness, the day was taking a long time to arrive, and at that hour, it felt as if it never would.

And leaning on the windowsill to enjoy the day, gazing at the variegated mass of the whole city, just one thought fills my soul: that I profoundly wish to die, to cease, to see no more light shining on this city or any city, to think no more, to feel no more, to leave behind the march of time and the sun like a paper wrapper, to remove like a heavy suit – next to the big bed – the involuntary effort of being.

When I was little I didn't know I'd grow up. Or I knew but didn't feel it. Time at that age doesn't exist. Each day it's the same kitchen table With the same backyard outside, And sadness, when felt, Is sadness, but you aren't sad.

Já duas vezes te disse Que nunca mais te diria O que te torno a dizer E fica para outro dia.