Best 242 quotes in «clock quotes» category

Mathematicians call it “the arithmetic of congruences.” You can think of it as clock arithmetic. Temporarily replace the 12 on a clock face with 0. The 12 hours of the clock now read 0, 1, 2, 3, … up to 11. If the time is eight o’clock, and you add 9 hours, what do you get? Well, you get five o’clock. So in this arithmetic, 8 + 9 = 5; or, as mathematicians say, 8 + 9 ≡ 5 (mod 12), pronounced “eight plus nine is congruent to five, modulo twelve.

Montag shook his head. He looked at a blank wall. The girl's face was there, really quite beautiful in memory: astonishing, in fact. She had a very thin face like the dial of a small clock seen faintly in a dark room in the middle of a night when you waken to see the time and see the clock telling you the hour and the minute and the second, with a white silence and a glowing, all certainty and knowing what it had to tell of the night passing swiftly on toward further darknesses, but moving also toward a new sun.

More than the sound of my own beating heart, I miss the sound of a ticking clock. Time passes, it must pass, but I have no more assurance of moving through time than I have that I am moving through space. In a way, I’m glad: this means perhaps 300 years and 364 days have passed, and tomorrow I will wake up. Sometimes after a cross-country meet or a long day at school, I’d fall into bed with all my clothes on and be out before I knew it. When I’d finally open my eyes, it would feel like I’d just shut them for a minute, but really, the whole rest of the day and half the night was gone. But. There were other times when I’d collapse onto my mattress, shut my eyes and dream, and it felt like I’d lived a whole lifetime in that dream, but when I woke up, it had only been a few minutes. What if only a year has gone by? What if we haven’t even left yet? That is my greatest fear.

Seeing his daughter slowly die, coupled with his infinite sadness and misery, the clockmaker becomes a recluse to the tower of the castle and begins to build something behind closed doors, not even his daughter knows what he’s up to. For five years, she only sees him briefly at meal-times before locking himself up in the tower once again..." "...Did he have a bathroom in the tower?" "Yes, Jack. A big one! En-suite! Power-shower and spa! Where was I!?

My visage high above your city, Shines like gold, but half as pretty. Arms I've none, but hands I've two: Mondo, mini, black not blue. Climb my stairs and have no fears, All that threatens are my gears. Tucked beneath the mightly wheel, An envelpe shall truth reveal.

Some are condemned to remain mere “clock and smart phone watchers”, inasmuch as they are not able to read and interpret the lines of their life or don't even treasure the enchantment of daily captivating moments. If we are not prepared to give some personal time to social time, we walk like blind men through gloomy alleys of our existence. ( " Please. Just a bit of a chat " )

She knows her timing, always knows. The time to strike or the time to starve. Her eyes as a clock, she watches she waits she learns, and in the second she blinks, she changes her mind just like that.

Someday, Chinmay, perhaps when you are as old as I am, you will realize that we calibrate time as per our own convenience. The dates on the calendar do not matter by themselves, nor do the numbers on the clock. Only this moment counts, this moment alone, and that is because of the awareness that we bring to it.

The clock sweats out each minute of what meat is left to us.

Stands the clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?

The clock is walking, i can hear his boots tik tok tik tok tikking, it's too dark i can't see but i am hearing sound of real boots too and it feels like billions of people are following him. I am so scared, i don't know why i am writing this but i am telling the truth, i am feeling like all of them are going somewhere, far far away from me.

The finished clock is resplendent. At first glance it is simply a clock, a rather large black clock with a white face and a silver pendulum. Well crafted, obviously, with intricately carved woodwork edges and a perfectly painted face, but just a clock. But that is before it is wound. Before it begins to tick, the pendulum swinging steadily and evenly. Then, then it becomes something else. The changes are slow. First, the color changes in the face, shifts from white to grey, and then there are clouds that float across it, disappearing when they reach the opposite side. Meanwhile, bits of the body of the clock expand and contract, like pieces of a puzzle. As though the clock is falling apart, slowly and gracefully. All of this takes hours. The face of the clock becomes a darker grey, and then black, with twinkling stars where numbers had been previously. The body of the clock, which has been methodically turning itself inside out and expanding, is now entirely subtle shades of white and grey. And it is not just pieces, it is figures and objects, perfectly carved flowers and planets and tiny books with actual paper pages that turn. There is a silver dragon that curls around part of the now visible clockwork, a tiny princess in a carved tower who paces in distress, awaiting an absent prince. Teapots that pour into teacups and minuscule curls of steam that rise from them as the seconds tick. Wrapped presents open. Small cats chase small dogs. An entire game of chess is played. At the center, where a cuckoo bird would live in a more traditional timepiece, is the juggler. Dress in harlequin style with a grey mask, he juggles shiny silver balls that correspond to each hour. As the clock chimes, another ball joins the rest until at midnight he juggles twelve balls in a complex pattern. After midnight, the clock begins once more to fold in upon itself. The face lightens and the cloud returns. The number of juggled balls decreases until the juggler himself vanishes. By noon it is a clock again, and no longer a dream.

THE FOUR HEAVENLY FOUNTAINS Laugh, I tell you And you will turn back The hands of time. Smile, I tell you And you will reflect The face of the divine. Sing, I tell you And all the angels will sing with you! Cry, I tell you And the reflections found in your pool of tears - Will remind you of the lessons of today and yesterday To guide you through the fears of tomorrow.

The Lord made no better clock than a child, and none more bitter. Oh, what beautiful clocks they are.

the moon is just another kind of clock

Then there are those who think their bodies don't exist. They live by mechanical time. They rise at seven o'clock in the morning. They eat their lunch at noon and their supper at six. They arrive at their appointments on time, precisely by the clock. They make love between eight and ten at night. They work forty hours a week, read the Sunday paper on Sunday, play chess on Tuesday nights. When their stomach growls, they look at their watch to see if it is time to eat. When they begin to lose themselves in a concert, they look at the clock above the stage to see when it will be time to go home. They know that the body is not a thing of wild magic, but a collection of chemicals, tissues, and nerve impulses. Thoughts are no more than electrical surges in the brain. Sexual arousal is no more than a flow of chemicals to certain nerve endings. Sadness no more than a bit of acid transfixed in the cerebellum. In short, the body is a machine, subject to the same laws of electricity and mechanics as an electron or clock. As such, the body must be addressed in the language of physics. And if the body speaks, it is the speaking only of so many levers and forces. The body is a thing to be ordered, not obeyed.

The pull of lingering dreams, the strong, bitter taste of morning coffee, the ticking clock, and horn of awaiting bus form a powerful combination to kick-start the day

Through learning at my later date things I hadn't known, or had escaped or possibly feared realizing, about my parents - and myself - I glimpsed our whole family life as if it were freed of that clock time which spaces us apart so inhibitingly, divides young and old, keeps our living through the same experiences at separate distances. It is our inward journey that leads us through time - forward or back, seldom in a straight line, most often spiraling. Each of us is moving, changing, with respect to others. As we discover, we remember; remembering, we discover; and most intensely do we experience this when our separate journeys converge. Our living experience at those meeting points is one of the charged dramatic fields of fiction.

Tick-Tock Tick-Tock Memory The tick tock tick tocks goes the clock The memory in my heart not aged but I am aged, As the tick tock tick tock goes on.

Tick. Tick. Tick. This is the sound of your life running out.

Time is Clock of the Universe!

Time is drowning, Hearts are burning, Heads are rolling, Nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock; Creatures talking, Weak are rising, White Queen’s nearing, Nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock; Cards are bleeding, Crowns are sweating, Tea is spilling, Nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock; Red Queen, here’s your warning, Wonderland’s raging, Alice is coming, Highness, time is drowning, And nothing can save you now, Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock…

Tired are my feet, that felt today the pavement; Tired are my ears, that heard of tragic things- Tired are my eyes, that saw so much enslavement; Only my voice is not too tired. It sings.

To become a better you, look nowhere else for another alarm to blow before you wake up. Get up and rise up.

To refrigerate a clock was an extremely violent act, not one I could explain to anyone.

Unlike clocks, hours have no reverse motion..

Waking up to an alarm clock is getting punched in the face by time.

When that little clock on my wall says “Olaotan! Olaotan!! Olaotan!!! It’s half past time to write”, I only have three things at my disposal: A pen, A piece of paper, and a crowded mind.

There’s no such thing as ‘not enough time’ out here in the woods. I don’t even have a watch. Time is my own, categorised as nothing more than ‘morning, afternoon, evening and night’.

The world is a clock winding down. I hear it in the wind’s icy fingers scratching against the window. I smell it in the mildewed carpeting and the rotting wallpaper of the old hotel. And I feel it in Teacup’s chest as she sleeps. The hammering of her heart, the rhythm of her breath, warm in the freezing air, the clock winding down.

Warm summer twilight here in upper Illinois country in this little town deep far away from everything, kept to itself by a river and a forest and a meadow and a lake. The sidewalks still scorched. The stores closing and the streets shadowed. And there were two moons; the clock moon with four ' faces in four night directions above the solemn black courthouse, and the real moon rising in vanilla whiteness from the dark east.

We have made clocks that are perfectly in sync with the industrial machinery and the Information Age and perfectly out of sync with nature and our circadian rhythm.

We progress a step farther, in each tick of the clock

When I do count the clock that tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violet past prime, And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard, Then of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Your clock cannot buy you more time, your bed cannot get you more sleep, your titles cannot acquire you more influence, your fame cannot gain you more honor, and your money cannot earn you more happiness.

A Clock stopped-- Not the Mantel's-- Geneva's farthest skill Can't put the puppet bowing-- That just now dangled still

A French proverb says 'Wait until it is night before saying that it has been a fine day.' To tell it more precise, wait till the clock strikes the midnight!

A golf ball is like a clock. Always hit it at 6 o'clock and make it go toward 12 o'clock. But make sure you're in the same time zone.

Amy sighed. Just when she started to almost like Ian again—after all, he'd flown across the ocean and had been working around the clock to help—his snob quotient went through the roof.

And like most middle-aged people who hear the clock ticking in their lives, I had come to resent a waste or theft of my time that was greater than any theft of my goods or money.

You get out of time what you put into it.

A less 'brainy-culture' would learn to synchronise its body rhythms rather than its clocks.

All of us have an 'inner clock,' a certain pace at which we function most comfortably and effectively.

And let a scholar all earth's volumes carry, he will be but a walking dictionary: a mere articulate clock.

And while the U.S. can never be 100 percent safe from a future strike, our government is working around the clock on measures to protect the American people.

A snooze button is a poor substitute for no alarm clock at all.

A stopped clock is correct twice a day, but a sundial can be used to stab someone, even at nighttime.

As terrifying as sharks are, I find it far more terrifying, the idea of being trapped on the bottom of the ocean with a ticking clock and running out of air.

At 60 miles an hour the loudest noise in this Rolls-Royce comes from the electric clock.

Be governed by your internal compass, not by some clock on the wall.