Quotes About Time

She had the distinct impression that something was beginning and something was ending; there were just so many days like this left to them. Before they knew it, time would speed up and the future would appear on a street corner or in a park, and there they'd be, grown women who'd forgotten how long a summer could last.

The most she dared to wish for now was to live long enough to become a woman.

Her vision was going, but she could see him, the way people see clouds-beautiful, racing by, casting shadows.

Time goes faster than you think.

As the summer passed, I began to feel free. I had time to myself, and I enjoyed watching over the children. I felt a sort of joy I'd never felt before. I was so unaccustomed to such emotions it took some time before I realized I was happy.

It was November, that quiet, gray time of the year when you feel like holding someone's hand. Gretel had her own hands clasped together, like a corpse.

Everything she loved had already happened and had already been.

Before they knew it, time would speed up and the future would appear on a street corner or in a park, and there they'd be, grown women who'd forgotten how long a summer could last.

The future was spun from moments like this. If she backed away, it might all unravel.

When you fall in love like that, time doesn't matter. This was the secret he told Maria, the last words he ever said.

Nothing would ever be the same, but Hannah had taught her that there were times, rare as they were, when what was done could be undone.

Neki ljudi znaju to?an trenutak kad su sve izgubili. Mogu se vratiti u prošlost i vidjeti to jasno kao na dlanu, ali ni za živu glavu ne mogu shvatiti zašto to nisu primijetili dok se doga?alo.

lifetime is a lifetime whether it lasts one night or a hundred years.

As they held hands through the bars, Dias spied a black beetle burrowing through the wood of the jail. It made a horrid clacking sound. It was said there was no way to stop this beetle's ticking off the hours of a person's life, but Samuel Dias had never heard of a deathwatch beetle. He went over and stomped on it with his boot, crushing it completely

History was easy: the past with all loss burned out of it, all sorrow worn out of it—all that was merely personal comfortably removed

He could have left out the fact that one had but a few hours to live, while the other had another life entirely still before him. This one. With her arms around her

With her silence alone she held off, for a moment longer, the suggestion that the worst was over, the tree had fallen, the storm was passing, and time, as she was given to saying, was marching on: school tomorrow, work for their father, laundry, shopping, meals. For just a moment more, she let them linger.

Mary lifted her own steno book. Only about six pages old, it still had its cool, slim heft and straight cardboard covers. By the end of the month, its pages would be bloated with the pencil strokes of her shorthand, its back would be cracked and its edges softened. And then she would begin another. The march of time. Pauline's eyes

Being happy," Uncle Tommy liked to say, "takes a great deal of work." He said he had no time for anything else.

His wife was beside him, buried in pillows. He was fifty-one and would be a new father again by the end of the year. This morning, woken by the wind, he had put his thumb to each fingertip, counting decades.

Some vestige of his race or of his sex made him think, whenever he looked out across the ocean: As it was before me and as it will be long after I'm gone. For the second time today, he touched his thumb to his fingertips. He could make it to the 1980s or 1990s, perhaps even to the next century, when the new baby would be grown, maybe with children of his or her own. But even with the best of luck, it would not be equal to the time he'd already spent.

She squinted against the sunlight on taxi hoods and bus windows, heard the rushing now of air and of taxis, wheezing buses, and underneath it all something banging—a loosened street sign, a trapped can, a distant hammer—rhythmic and methodical. The march of time.

It was a balancing act, to hold off quarrel and worry, the coming years, the coming months, even tomorrow morning for just whatever time it took to finish a sandwich, to drink the coffee while it was still hot. Careful now. All around them

Marcel Proust was denied the chance to decipher the enigma of his life. I believe that the quest for "lost time" in the title of his great novel was the quest for the life he never lived. In