Charles Wagner Quotes

Life is a memory, and then it is nothing.

Writers and believers live their lives haunted by the same question: What happens to our days once they disappear? The objective fact is that each day that passes is lost forever, as forbidden to us as the dead. But prayer and fiction offer a different answer. Those lost days still live among us, written in each person's hand, turned into stories.

The future and eternity are two entirely different things.

Only death reveals what a nothing the body of man is.

Today's today. Tomorrow we may be ourselves gone down the drain of Eternity.

He saw all these forms and faces in a thousand relationships become newly born. Each one was mortal, a passionate, painful example of all that is transitory. Yet none of them died, they only changed, were always reborn, continually had a new face: only time stood between one face and another.

When we talk about our lives, long or short, brief and tragic or enduring beyond comprehension, we impose a continuity on them, and that continuity is a lie.

Reflect often upon the rapidity with which all existing things, or things coming into existence, sweep past us and are carried away.

I know simply that the sky will last longer than I.

Time is a lot of the things people say that God is. There's always preexisting, and having no end. There's the notion of being all powerful-because nothing can stand against time, can it? Not mountains, not armies. And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return. And if time is anything akin to God, I suppose that memory must be the devil.

If time and space, as sages say, Are things which cannot be, The sun which does not feel decay No greater is than we. So why, Love, should we ever pray To live a century? The butterfly that lives a day Has lived eternity.

The short-lived self, teetering on the edge of extinction, is the only thing that can ever really matter.

Time stays, we go.

We die only once, and for such a long time.

I think the life we are living now is just a blink in the eye of eternity.

Eternity is in love with the productions of time.

Life is hardly more than a fraction of a second. Such a little time to prepare oneself for eternity!

Time is but the shadow of the world upon the background of Eternity.

Infancy is what is eternal, and the rest, all the rest, is brevity, extreme brevity.

If time is not real, then the dividing line between this world and eternity, between suffering and bliss, between good and evil, is also an illusion.

We're all just passing time and occupy our chair very briefly.

Life continues, irrespective of whether we are there or not.

It is privilege of living to be acutely, agonizingly conscious of the moment that is always present and always passing.

We are occupants. No one has any lasting purchase on life or on the planet.

Life is a bubble in a lake, that glitters for an instant, bursts, and leaves not even a blur on the water; it is the leap of a minnow, which sends a tiny ripple trembling for a few inches.