Quotes About Moments

To two men living the same number of years, the world always provides the same sum of experiences. It is up to us to be conscious of them.

A man is an artist only at certain moments, by an effort of will. Objects have the same appearance for everybody.

Birthdays? yes, in a general way; For the most if not for the best of men: You were born (I suppose) on a certain day: So was I: or perhaps in the night: what then?

Such is the life of a man. Moments of joy, obliterated by unforgettable sadness. There's no need to tell the children that.

There is not any present moment that is unconnected with some future one. The life of every man is a continued chain of incidents, each link of which hangs upon the former.

Small things were important. Secods were small things, and if you heaped enough of those on top of one another, they became a man's life.

Only the basic situations in life occur only once, never to return. For a man to be a man, he must be fully aware of this never-to-return. (p.148)

But what are years, what are months!" he would exclaim. "Why count the days, when even one day is enough for man to know all happiness.

In moments the whole assembly was rocking with jeering laughter as I stood ridiculously before them. My hands clenched uncontrollably; I had been prepared for any humiliation but the martyrdom of laughter.

Love isn't a burst o' trumpets and a flock o' doves descendin' out o' the heavens to roost on yer heads. Tis sharin' a cup o' tea by the hearth on a cold winter's night. 'Tis the look in yer husband's eyes when ye lay yer first child in his arms. Tis the ache in yer heart when ye watch the light in his eyes dim fer the last time, and know a part o' ye has gone out o' this world with him...

Stan's well-meaning but misguided loyalty to "sorting things out," that is, to determining the one right reality about it (which was, of course, his), deprived them both of moments like the one they are having now in my office: moments of repair.

Outside of a teapot life is but thousands of dusty affairs.

Nothing is sad on a beautiful morning save to look down and realize you just had the last sip of coffee and the mug sits indifferently empty.

We write to remember our nows later.

It is often said that before you die your life passes before your eyes. It is in fact true. It's called living.

It is said that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. That is true, it's called Life.

Opportunities are like shooting stars if you wait too long you miss them"

The acute scenes were still on our eyes, immediate and clear in the passion; and there were moments, too, in which we were outsiders and could draw away, as if we were in a plane and rose far, to a high focus above that coast, those cities, and this sea, with sight and feelings sharper than before

time only exists to stop everything happening at once.

We can cherish the quiet moments. We can live day to day." Enid

But the decay was there, deep and bitter. There was no getting rid of it. She would never be happy again. There might be moments. Small rewards that brought pleasure, but true happiness seemed forever beyond her grasp. And maybe deep down she knew it.

You wake up in the morning, and your purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours of unmanufactured tissue of the universe of your life It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions. No one can take it from you. And no one receives either more or less than you receive.

So precious life is! Even to the old, the hours are as a miser's coins!

Having contact sheets for all sorts of episodes in your life seemed to me intriguing and desirable. So much of my own history is beclouded by time, but a few sharp rays, in the form of pictures, falling upon a given day would resuscitate whole contexts. And from this archipelago of moments, scenes, episodes, you could see the larger tectonic movements of your life forming and unforming. You would be reminded of who you are. Or at least of who you were.