Quotes About Time

A man can't be angry at his own time without suffering some damage.

There is no distance on this earth as far away as yesterday.

How little we have, I thought, between us and the waiting cold, the mystery, death--a strip of beach, a hill, a few walls of wood or stone, a little fire--and tomorrow's sun, rising and warming us, tomorrow's hope of peace and better weather . . . What if tomorrow vanished in the storm? What if time stood still? And yesterday--if once we lost our way, blundered in the storm--would we find yesterday again ahead of us, where we had thought tomorrow's sun would rise?

It seems to me that I have always wanted to say the same thing in my books: that life is one, that mystery is all around us, that yeterday, today and tomorrow are all spread out in the pattern of eternity, together, and that although love may wear many faces in the incomprehensible panorama of time, in the heart that loves, it is always the same.

I don't think I care very much about being rich, Jennie. I just want to paint--and to know what I'm painting. That's what's so hard--to know what you're painting; to reach to something beyond these little, bitter times...

We know so little", I said, "and there's so much to know. We live by taste and touch; we see only what is under our noses. There are solar systems up there above us, greater than our own; and whole universes in a drop of water. And time stretches out endlessly on every side. This earth, this ocean, this little moment of living, has no meaning by itself. . . Yesterday is just as true as today; only we forget.

We'd like to think that our youth was madder, brighter, happier than it was. It comforts us as we grow older, to believe that once upon a time we danced at dawn in a fountain.

Time flies. It's up to you to be the navigator.

The best birthdays of all are those that havent arrived yet.

Humor starts like a wildfire, but then continues on, smoldering, smoldering for years.

deactivating this area (right parietal lobe) of the brain that controls self, time and space enhances virtues such as forgiveness, and allows us to take a "higher" view of life.

We are the prisoners of history. Or are we?

And all times are one time, and all those dead in the past never lived before our definition gives them life, and out of the shadow their eyes implore us. That is what all of us historical researchers believe. And we love truth.

Tell me a story. / In this century, and moment, of mania, tell me a story. / Make it a story of great distances, and starlight. / The name of the story will be time, / But you must not speak its name. / Tell me a story of deep delight.

Reality is not a function of the event as event, but of the relationship of that event to past, and future, events.

The lack of a sense of history is the damnation of the modern world.

If something takes too long, something happens to you. You become all and only the thing you want and nothing else, for you have paid too much for it, too much in wanting and too much in waiting and too much in getting.

But someone I know is dying-- And though one might say glibly, "everyone is," The different pace makes the difference absolute.

Removing one task can free up a couple of minutes of free time, every day... which turns into hours or days every year. Time

Human beings, in other words, are always already dead. This proleptic knowledge of finitude predetermines their most creative as well as their most destructive dispositions.

Walls, no less than writing, define civilization. They are monuments of resistance against time, like writing itself. . .

It's a small matter, but one which I think shouldn't be overlooked. - Oh Yes? And that is? - That is the simple matter that time travel is an impossibility, you craven buffoon! - Not with the latest miracle of modern horticulture...Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce you to THE TIME SPROUT ! 'Pleased to be here' said the vegetable in question.

You have to have time to be sorry for yourself to be a good Abstract Expressionist.

Everything that was to happen had happened and everything that was to be seen had gone. It was now one of those moments when nothing remains but an opening in the sky and a story—and maybe something of a poem. Anyway, as you possibly remember, there are these lines in front of the story: And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose . . . These words are now part of the story.