Dwight Schultz Quotes

For the moment and for some time great events have been denied me, forward action not come my way.

Slow motion gets you there faster.

Time moves slowly, but passes quickly.

Time passes so slowly if you are unaware of it and so quickly if you are aware of it.

Grief reconfigures time, its length, its texture, its function: one day means no more than the next, so why have they been picked out and given separate names?

Art is a magic which makes the hours melt away and even days dissolve into seconds

Eventlessness has no posts to drape duration on. From nothing to nothing is no time at all.

But it's Sunday, Mr. Bell. Clocks are slow on Sundays.

I hadn't understood how days could be both long and short at the same time: long to live through, maybe, but so drawn out that they ended up flowing into one another. They lost their names. Only 'yesterday' and 'tomorrow' still had any meaning for me.

In the hours without sleep, each moment is so full and so vacant that it suggests itself as a rival of Time.

It's strange how time can make a place shrink, make its strangeness ordinary.

Time seems to slow down for me when I focus on staying in the moment and that helps me maintain a sense of balance.

Time constricts and flattens, you know. It's not evenly weighted. Certain moments linger in the mind and others disappear.

These tenses-past, present and future-are not the tenses of time; they are tenses of the mind. That which is no longer before the mind becomes the past. That which is before the mind is the present. And that which is going to be before the mind is the future. Past is that which is no longer before you. Future is that which is not yet before you. And present is that which is before you and is slipping out of your sight. Soon it will be past.

Maybe the only thing that hints at a sense of Time is rhythm; not the recurrent beats of the rhythm but the gap between two such beats, the gray gap between black beats: the Tender Interval.

In a contest between new technology and old ways of life, it is the traditional rhythms that will hold. Traditional societies make up more than two-thirds of the world, the two-thirds that will not be going online to "save" time but will remain wedded to the knowledge that if the bus doesn't come that day, it will come someday. After all, there is nothing but time.

It's true though: time moves in its own special way in the middle of the night," the bartender says, loudly striking a book match and lighting a cigarette. "You can't fight it.

Paintings. Or the collapse of time in images.

I wish the days to be as centuries, loaded, fragrant. Now we reckon them as bank-days, by some debt which is to be paid us, or which we are to pay, or some pleasure we are to taste.

In an instant, our mind can carry us far away into memories of the past or fantasies about the future. Or we may get caught up in a race against the clock, feeling like there's never enough time. We say things like "Time is flying," "Time is running out," or "There are never enough hours in the day."

The community is eminently Portuguese - that is to say, it is slow, poor, shiftless, sleepy, and lazy.

When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, it seems like two minutes; when you sit on a hot stove for two minutes, it seems like two hours. That's relativity.

You can't measure time the way you measure the distance between two points.

Time is the supreme illusion. It is but the inner prism by which we decompose being and life, the mode under which we perceive successively what is simultaneous in idea.

Then time seemed to stop, or rather to lose its directional urgency of movement; it became a place in the open where one stood rather than a low, narrow corridor down which one was hurried.