Alice Meynell Quotes

Time moves in one direction, memory in another.

Time destroys everything.

Time is not kind to everything.

Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.

Time is the devourer of all things.

The calendar has a magic that makes us imagine a memory can be resurrected and revived, but nothing returns.

Many years have passed since that night. The wall of the staircase up which I had watched the light of his candle gradually climb was long ago demolished. And in myself, too, many things have perished which I imagined would last for ever, and new ones have arisen, giving birth to new sorrows and new joys which in those days I could not have foreseen, just as now the old are hard to understand.

When you ride in a boat and watch the shore, you might assume that the shore is moving. But when you keep your eyes closely on the boat, you can see that the boat moves. Similarly, if you examine myriad things with a confused body and mind you might suppose that your mind and nature are permanent. But when you practice intimately and return to where you are, it will be clear that there is nothing that has unchanging self.

The calendar and the mirror - they're bastards.

You have to hurry up if you want to see something, everything disappears.

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me.

Only times and places, only names and ghosts.

We tried not to age, but time had its rage.

Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come Again in this identical guise.

We have this time to meet and do something, or just be together, and then we lose it and move to another kind of time, another kind of being, I guess. Those left behind must mourn, remember, and live on as we know.

Time takes all and gives all.

Time stays, we go.

Be vigilant, for nothing one achieves lasts forever.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

People may flatter themselves just as much by thinking that their faults are always present to other people's minds, as if they believe that the world is always contemplating their individual charms and virtues.

Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away.

Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live.

Photographers deal in things which are continually vanishing and when they have vanished there is no contrivance on earth which can make them come back again.

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

The present hardly exists, after all-it becomes the past even as it happens. A tricky medium, time - and central to the concerns of fiction.