Philippa Gregory Quotes

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

Things happen once only and are never repeated, never return. Except in memory.

Time passes irrevocably.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

You can't be 24 again; you can't be new when you're 40 years old.

Lovers come back. Styles come back. But time? It never comes back.

If I could, I would stop the passage of time. But hour follows on hour, minute on minute, each second robbing me of a morsel of myself for the nothing of tomorrow. I shall never experience this moment again.

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

How those fires burned that are no longer, how the weather worsened, how the shadow of the seagull vanished without a trace. Was it the end of a season, the end of a life? Was it so long ago it seems it might never have been? What is it in us that lives in the past and longs for the future, or lives in the future and longs for the past? (from "No Words Can Describe It")

Alas! the fleeting years, how they roll on!

Try to hold on to youth and it mocks you while it sprints away.

Middle age is the way you would feel about summer if you knew there would never be another spring.

Time bears away all things.

I was looking at the photographs and I started thinking that there was a time when these weren't memories.

We mourn the transitory things and fret under the yoke of the immutable ones.

It’s difficult to ever go back to the same places or people. You turn away, even for a moment, and when you turn back around, everything’s changed.

What came is gone forever every time

All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

Time will pass and seasons will come and go.

Time is flying never to return.

A photograph is a moment - when you press the button, it will never come back.

I long for the time of no more departures. It has something to do with age, probably.

But where are the snows of yester year?

What is it one yearns for? It is to be able to do a thing for the first time again. And that is impossible.

My first memory was of stories about the past - a past that, according to the storytellers, was superior in every way to the life then being lived. It didn't take me long, however, to understand that the present was all we had, for the past was gone, and nothing could be done about it.