Quotes About Transition

One day you discover you are alive. Explosion! Concussion! Illumination! Delight! You laugh, you dance around, you shout. But, not long after, the sun goes out. Snow falls, but no one sees it, on an August noon.

and sleeping put an end to summer, 1928

passing swiftly on toward further darknesses, but moving also toward a new sun.

One year Halloween came on October 24, three hours after midnight. At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months, and twenty-four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands. And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more...

The quality of death, like that of life, must be of an infinite variety, and if one has already died once, then what was there to look for in dying for good and all, as he was now?

If I was ever a rare fine summer person, that's long ago. Most of us are half-and-half. The August noon in us works to stave off the November chills. We survive by what little Fourth of July wits we've stashed away. But there are times when we're all autumn people.

He felt as if he had left a stage behind and many actors. He felt as if he had left the great séance and all the murmuring ghosts. He was moving from an unreality that was frightening into a reality that was unreal because it was new.

THERE ARE THOSE DAYS WHICH SEEM A TAKING in of breath which, held, suspends the whole earth in its waiting. Some summers refuse to end.

Whatever she is now she's better than she was, said Bedloe. Being dead is better than being dull, being dead is better than not being aware.

The wind whistled, was cool: it was an early autumn evening, no longer a late summer one.

Nothing ever likes to die — even a room.

Dandelion Wine is nothing if it is not the boy-hid-in-the-man playing in the fields of the Lord on the green grass of other Augusts in the midst of starting to grow up, grow old, and sense darkness waiting under the trees to seed the blood. I

It is a subliminal thing. It is the tick of a clock that has ticked so long one no longer notices. Something is in a room when a man lives in it. Something is not in the room when a man is dead in it.

The August noon in us works to stave off the November chills. We survive by what little Fourth of July wits we've stashed away. But there are times when we're all autumn people.

Summer was over. Of course you can't tell in Los Angeles.

Nothing ever likes to die--not even a room. (p.23 --> The Veldt)

If anything is taught here, it is simply the charting of the life of someone who started out to somewhere—and went.

Some summers refuse to end.

Is death being on a ship sailing and all your folks left back on the shore?

El cierre de cremallera desplaza al botón y el hombre ya no dispone de todo ese tiempo para pensar mientras se viste, una hora filosófica y, por tanto, una hora de melancolía.

A machine, now, to help boys change from peach fuzz to briar bramble, girls from toadstools to nectarine.

The winds that had been young and wild grew old and serene

Any time now, Mr. Forrester will think it over and see it's just the only way and have a good cry and then look around and see it's morning again, even though it's five in the afternoon.

The zipper displaces the button, and a man lacks just that much time to think while dressing at dawn, a philosophical hour, and this a melancholy hour.