Quotes About Time

Foucault's pendulum would

The hallowed Hodegetria has failed; the Mother of God has forsaken them; the beast of the apocalypse rises from the sea. The Antichrist scratches at the gate. Time is a circle, Licinius used to say, and every circle eventually must close.

Beneath your world of skies and faces and buildings exists a rawer and older world, a place where surface planes disintegrate and sounds ribbon in shoals through the air.

We all grew up before we we're grown up.

Four or five or six or a million heartbeats roll by.

O tempo é algo escorregadio: segure com firmeza, ou seu encadeamento pode escoar de suas mãos para sempre.

Every time he blinks, a memory ripples across the undersides of his eyelids:

We will call him Omeir. One who lives long.

But what Marie-Laure remembered, standing at the rail as it whistled past, was her father saying that Foucault's pendulum would never stop. It would keep swinging, she understood, after she and her father left the Pantheon, after she had fallen asleep that night. After she had forgotten about it, and lived her entire life, and died.

So many words! It would take seven lifetimes to learn them all.

The past, present, and future walked into a bar. It was tense.

Cada minuto que passa é um minuto a menos nesta casa. Nesta vida.

A vida toda você espera; agora, quando finalmente acontece, você está pronto?

It's dirty and wormholed, colonized with mold, as though fungal hyphae, time, and water have collaborated to make an erasure poem.

tapping Zeno's

Algumas tristezas nunca deixam de existir.

And in our tale of Noah and the ship of books, can you guess what is the flood?" She shakes her head. "Time. Day after day, year after year, time wipes the old books from the world. The manuscript you brought us before? That was written by Aelian, a learned man who lived at the time of the Caesars. For it to reach us in this room, in this hour, the lines within it had to survive a dozen centuries. A scribe had to copy it, and a second

Every second of every day has its own magic. - Pg. 163-4

every second is a second lost.

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.

You know how diamond—show all crystals—grow, Laurette? By adding microscopic layers, a few thousand atoms every month, each atop the next. Millennia after millennia. That's how stories accumulate too. All the old stones accumulate stories.

each day working more frenetically than the last, as if against some deadline known only to him.

How can one country make another change its clocks? What if everybody refuses?

Consider a single piece glowing in your family's stove. See it, children? That chunk of coal was once a green plant, a fern or reed that lived one million years ago, or maybe two million, or maybe one hundred million . . .