Quotes About Time

The greatest tragedy that can befall a man is not death but the inability to do what should be done at the right time

So they will continue until such time as a spiritual awakening takes place. Pressure is never brought to bear upon these souls; their mental resurrection must come from within themselves.

The West is eveningland, the East morningland.

Anni, amori e bicchieri di vino, nun se contano mai."' '"Years, lovers and glasses of wine; these things must not be counted.

Anni, amori e bicchieri di vino, nun se contano mai

Early One Morning takes time and, I mean, all things like that I felt were very important.

Did time move forward, through people, or did people move through it like clouds across the sky?

To men like that, time was a surfeit, a barrel they watched slowly drain. When really, he thinks, it's a glowing puddle you carry in your hands; you should spend all your energy protecting it. Fighting for it. Working so hard not to spill one single drop.

A shell screams over the house. He thinks: I only want to sit here with her for a thousand hours.

If only life were like a Jules Verne novel, thinks Marie-Laure, and you could page ahead when you most needed to, and learn what would happen.

The things that look fixed in the world, child—mountains, wealth, empires—their permanence is only an illusion. We believe they will last, but that is only because of the brevity of our own lives. From the perspective of God, cities like this come and go like anthills.

Open your eyes, the Frenchman on the radio used to say, and see what you can with them before they close forever.

A scientist's work is determined by two things: his interests and those of his time. Everything has led to this.

Forgetting, he is learning, is how the world heals itself.

Why can't healing happen as quickly as wounding?

That's what the gods do," he says, "they spin threads of ruin through the fabric of our lives, all to make a song for generations to come.

Every hour, Robert thinks, all over the globe, an infinite number of memories disappear, whole glowing atlases dragged into graves. But during that same hour children are moving about, surveying territory that seems to them entirely new. They push back the darkness; they scatter memories behind them like bread crumbs. The world is remade.

In our memories the stories of our lives defy chronology, resist transcription: past ambushes present, and future hurries into history.

What use are memories when memories can do little more than fade?

We all grew up before we were grown up.

You can cling to this world for a thousand years and still be plucked out of it in a breath.

Some griefs can never be put right.

And when a book goes out of the world, the memory dies a second death.

in time you will come to believe that there is nobility in being part of an enterprise that will outlast you.