Jonathan Safran Foer Quotes

Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.

It is a sad moment when the first phlox appears. It is the amber light indicating the end of the great burst of early summer and suggesting that we must now start looking forward to autumn. Not that I have any objection to autumn as a season, full of its own beauty; but I just cannot bear to see another summer go, and I recoil from what the first hint of autumn means.

I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know.

Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning.

We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked.

It stared at them, and it paused for a hundred years, which transpired in a dozen heart beats.

Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

Spring ... made fair false promises which summer was called upon to keep.

For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go.

Summer passes into autumn in some unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

The biggest change is that time just goes by so fast when you're on the road. It seems like it's only been a month or so since I've been back and it's already been more than half a year. I can't complain, though. I'm in a great spot right and it's up to me to take advantage of it while I can.

When autumn comes, it doesn't ask. It just walks in, where it left you last. And you never know, when it starts; until there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart.

Looking out at the road rushing under my wheels. Looking back at the years gone by like so many summer fields.

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

It follows the seasons, beginning each year with the fond expectancy of springtime and ending with the hard facts of autumn.

The time would not pass. Somebody was playing with the clocks, and not only the electronic clocks but the wind-up kind too. The second hand on my watch would twitch once, and a year would pass, and then it would twitch again. There was nothing I could do about it. As an Earthling I had to believe whatever clocks said -and calendars.

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer.

Autumn to winter, winter into spring, Spring into summer, summer into fall,-- So rolls the changing year, and so we change; Motion so swift, we know not that we move.

The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.