Best 236 quotes in «time passing quotes» category

Because time does the job, dynamite can't touch. (Samuel Hamilton)

Be them good times, Be them bad times, I swear to you They never last!

Sana: – Tanto 2 o 3 mesi passano in fretta! Mamma: – (narrando) Si separano tranquillamente, dicendosi che due o tre mesi passeranno in fretta… Ma quei bambini non sanno… …che per loro il tempo scorre moooolto più lentamente che per gli adulti.

But however minimal, however threadbare, it (collective memory) is ballast of a kind. We all need that seven-eighths of the iceberg, the ballast of the past, a general past, the place from which we came. That is why history should be taught in school. to all children, as much of it as possible. If you have no sense of the past, no access to historical narrative, you are afloat, untethered; you cannot see yourself as a part of the narrative, you cannot place yourself within a context. You will not have an understanding of time, and a respect for memory and its subtle victory over the remorselessness of time.

But even in this card, as in all cards: transience. The faces in the crowd — faces that will watch the every move of the lordly All-Star in the foreground — have been blurred to something like Monet’s lily pads, those hypnotic omens of the inevitable dusk into which we’ll all dissolve. All names, even those of the greatest among us, will eventually unravel to silence.

can I ask you a simple but complex question? Why are you still alive and living?

By and by we shall say goodbye

Dare to keep moving when it is a must and there to keep waiting when you have to, but note, you shall always keep waiting if you keep waiting and you shall always keep moving when you keep moving!

Do anything that you want to do other than what you are required to do...success will surely go to others.

Do not constantly spend your time complaining about a problem you may be having or may be up against, focus your time toward correcting the problem. Always remember, Time is value!

D'you know, Georgie," he said, settling back comfortably in the deep grass, that there song you've been a-singin' at all day - it ain't much of a song and it ain't much of a tune, but there's real good *sense* to it, though you probably don't know it. And I'll tell you why - because there always *is* new Folks comin', that's why. There's always new Folks comin' and always new times comin'.

El tiempo sigue su curso, pero la vida se para un montón de veces dentro de sí y se convierte en algo irreconocible".

Espero que en algún lugar haya otro ser humano que haya sentido alguna vez lo que estoy sintiendo ahora... y también espero que este ser humano no esté encerrado en La Castañeda o en el San Bernardino.

Even at 80, I shall say that I am yet to start, Yes! I shall say that I am yet to start, for that shall give me the real reason never ever to look back and see what I have done but, to look ahead and see the marvelous things I shall be able to do and the distinctive footprints I shall be able live and leave with the very seconds that shall be ahead of me! Life must never be over until all is over!

Even at 80, I shall say that I am yet to start, for that shall give me the real reason never ever to look back and see what I have done but to look ahead and see the marvelous things I shall be able to do and the distinctive footprints I shall be able live and leave with the very seconds that shall be ahead of me! Life must never be over until all is over!

But until this night, she had never once actually wet the bed. And now that she has, we just lie there in the accident, and the minutes of the clock keep changing, and the love I have for her keeps growing, and we both keep drawing breath. What was so horrible about it? Why had I always been so angry? What was my need to always be right? To win every argument with her? To out-stubborn a dog? And just like that, all the anger is gone. Released like the emptying of a bladder into soft cotton sheets as we lie in the wetness.

children spend their time for they think they have more time; adults cry over their time for they see they have less time

Dare to keep moving when it is a must and dare to keep waiting when you have to, but note, you shall always keep waiting if you keep waiting and you shall always keep moving when you keep moving!

Don't waste time with people who waste time. Time is precious, fragile as a butterfly wing, meaningful as an orgasm.

Do we kill time, or does time ultimately kill us?

Do you invest your time or spend it?

(Drácula) Qué pocos días son necesarios para que pase un siglo.

Drzeci se za proslost, odricemo se buducnosti.

Enjoying Life’s Pace: Waiting really shouldn’t be an occupation…things will happen when they happen and not one minute sooner. That is the way of life; it runs at its own pace. Enjoy as many minutes as you can.

Every Now have Then ; Every Then have Now !

Everything turns slower when she’s not around, but when she’s with me, an hour feels like a blink of an eye.

Evo, ja se više ni sa kim ne držim za ruke i potpuno sam se izgubio među drugim ljudima i ženama čije reči zvuče poput leda u čaši: izgubio sam svoj stari kartonski kofer sa nekim dragim stvarima i adresama koje bi možda pomogle da se setim ko sam i odakle dolazim.

Excerpt: Paradox – Bound By Blood. The hands on a clock never falter, not for a second. One day ends; and a new begins. If there was one thing on this earth that could be counted on, it was that. Time never paused to mourn the dead. That particular privilege is allotted to the living. It is for the survivor to mourn, bury the dead, and leave the rest to the earth. That is the way of it – the way of death - and the misery it leaves behind.

Fast car . . . You can drive anywhere in just a few minutes and time becomes just another thing we take advantage of never appreciating each moment that passes as a blessing from God.

Es zinu mirkļus dienas garumā un dienas mirkļa īsumā.

For each tic of the clock, a small door slams shut; in the following tic is heard the turn of a lock.

for all I can really do is stand here in September’s rain savoring… soaking it all in slipping.. and simply holding on to poetry for dear life.

For children, childhood is timeless. It is always the present. Everything is in the present tense. Of course, they have memories. Of course, time shifts a little for them and Christmas comes round in the end. But they don’t feel it. Today is what they feel, and when they say ‘When I grow up,’ there is always an edge of disbelief—how could they ever be other than what they are?

For, though seven years be a mere breath in the memories of the old, it is a long transfiguration to him whose first youth is passing, and who finds unsolicited additions accruing to some parts of his being and strange deprivations in others, and upon whom the unhappy realization begins to be borne in, that his is no particular case, and that he of all the world is not to be spared, but, like his forbears, must inevitably wriggle in the disguising crucible of time. And, though men accept it with apparently patient humor, the first realization that people do grow old, and that they do it before they have had time to be young, is apt to come like a shock.

Go for it because for all those moments that you would make up your mind the other might have already rushed for it.

From all that I saw, and everywhere I wandered, I learned that time cannot be spent, It only can be squandered.

He had set up a telescope on a corner of the roof, and we went up to take a look. This is time travel, he said, narrowing an eye to set the lens. Because the light is old. We're seeing back in time. No, we said, wrinkling our noses. We are seeing right now, today. No, he said, the light has to travel to us and it takes millions of years. What you're seeing is time. Excuse me, we said. We were embarrassed to correct him. He seemed so smart. What we're seeing is space. It's space, yes, he said. It's also time. You're seeing what has already happened.

He wrote all the time except during those late-afternoon hours between night and day when he didn't know what to do with himself. When work was over and the evening hadn't yet begun. He saw people going about their business, on their way home on the streetcars, walking with the evening newspaper in their hands. He looked at the dull gray of the city as it settled to dark, the clatter of dishes, children's heads bent over books, cooking smells -- chicken, stews, soups -- drifting into the street. It was in the pauses, in the space between notes, in the slips and breaks, a kind of slow steady interval as if one thing could lead to the next. As if you could go to sleep and wake up and it would be a new day and somehow things would be different than they'd been before. But Benny knew otherwise. Life didn't get better as it went along. It got narrower as if you were walking through a tunnel that was closing in on you, toward a distant beam of light that kept receding. Life got slower and the pauses got longer. Benny didn't mind the day when he was busy, and he waited for the night when he'd go somewhere and listen or play if they let him. It was the in-between time when he felt lost.

How can you waste time? You have only so much to use, and no matter what you do, it still passes.

I am old and all I have left is time. I don't mean time to live; I mean free time. Time to fill. Time to kill until time kills me. I walk and walk and think and think.

I am struck by what a tawdry magician’s trick Time is after all. I am sixty-six years old. Viewed from your coign of vantage—facing toward the future—sixty-six years is a great deal of time. It is all of the experience of your life more than three times over. But, viewed from my coign of vantage—facing toward the past—this sixty-six years was the fluttering down of a cherry petal. I feel that my life was a picture hastily sketched but never filled in . . . for lack of time. Only yesterday—but more than fifty years ago—I walked along this river with my father. I can remember how big and strong his hand felt to my small fingers. Fifty years. But all the insignificant, busy things—the terribly important, now forgotten things that cluttered the intervening time collapse and fall away from my memory. And I remember another yesterday when my daughter was a little girl. We walked along here. At this very moment, the nerves in my hand remember the feeling of her chubby fingers clinging to one of mine.

I avoid looking at the clock, fearing the slow passing of time that will only seem slower if I watch its progress.

If time waits for no one then let me show you how it does, by smash your watch.

If we seek for the best times to act, we may miss some opportunities. We must seize the moment and make it great.

Everything passes, but nothing entirely goes away.

I am constantly mystified by what John ends up remembering… I just don’t understand why he’s able to hang on to information like that, while so many other more important memories evaporate. Then again, I suppose so much of what stays with us is often insignificant. The memories we take to the ends of our lives have no real rhyme or reason, especially when you think of the endless things that you do over the course of a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime. All the cups of coffee, hand-washings, changes of clothes, lunches, goings to the bathroom, headaches, naps, walks to school, trips to the grocery store, conversations about the weather—all the things so unimportant they should be immediately forgotten. Yet they aren’t. I often think of the Chinese red bathrobe I had when I was twenty-seven years old; the sound of our first cat Charlie’s feet on the linoleum of our old house; the hot rarefied air around aluminum pot the moment before the kernels of popcorn burst open. I think of these things as often as I think about getting married or giving birth or the end of the Second World War. What is truly amazing is that before you know it, sixty years go by and you can remember maybe eight or nine important events, along with a thousand meaningless ones. How can that be? You want to think there’s a pattern to it all because it makes you feel better, gives you some sense of a reason why we’re here, but there really isn’t any. People look for God in these patterns, these reasons, but only because they don’t know where else to look. Things happen to us: some of it important, most of it not, and a little of it stays with us till the end. What stays after that? I’ll be damned if I know. (pp.174-175)

If you travel in space for three years and come back, four hundred years will have passed on Earth. I am only an armchair astronomer, but I have the odd sense that I have returned from a journey to a world where nothing quite makes sense.

I have learned how to make time pass, but I never stop thinking of you.

I’m awfully interested in how big things begin. You know how it is; you’re twenty-one or twenty-two and you make some decisions. . . then whissh! you’re seventy. You’ve been a lawyer for fifty years and that white-haired lady by your side has eaten over 50,000 meals with you. How do such things begin?

If you expect me to do more than what you asked me to do, I am not passing my time, you are passing your time