Khaled Hosseini Quotes

They would grow old. They would forget me.

We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget.

Our memory is and always will be as good as time travel gets, and in the meantime time will do the travelling for us.

Time, memory, loss and love are my main artistic concerns, but time, among all of them, becomes the determinant.

Experience had taught me that even the most precious memories fade with the passage of time.

Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.

The world changes too fast. You take your eyes off something that's always been there, and the next minute it's just a memory.

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

It was a long time ago now. And it was yesterday.

One forgets so quickly one's own youth.

The years as they pass plunder us of one thing after another.

Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

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.

Our nemesis is time, against which we have a single ally, memory, and even it betrays us.

listen to me as one listens to the rain, the years go by, the moments return, do you hear the footsteps in the next room? not here, not there: you hear them in another time that is now, listen to the footsteps of time, inventor of places with no weight, nowhere, listen to the rain running over the terrace, the night is now more night in the grove, lightning has nestled among the leaves, a restless garden adrift-go in, your shadow covers this page.

They say time flies, but you keep breaking it’s wings.

Dor shook his head. “The phrase. What does it mean?” Sarah wondered if he was kidding. “Time flies? You know, like, time goes really fast and suddenly you’re saying goodbye and it’s like no time passed at all?” His eyes drifted. He liked it. “Time flies.” “With you,” she added.

Time steals away without any inconvenience.

In the sense that writing is to retrieve the past and stop the passing of time, all writing is about loss. It's not nostalgia in the sense of yearning to bring back the past, but recognition of the erosion of things as you live.

All pictures are unnatural. All pictures are sad because they're about dead people. Paintings you don't think of in a special time or with a specific event. With photos I always think I'm looking at something dead.

Time moves in one direction, memory in another.

It's very inconvenient because every time I finish, let's say, a chapter of a book, I think I'm going to ring Richard and then realize: Oh, Christ, I've buried him. I buried him last year.

We are all treading the vanishing road of a song in the air, the vanishing road of the spring flowers and the winter snows, the vanishing roads of the winds and the streams, the vanishing road of beloved faces.

The future continues to preoccupy me as a reliable source of hopes, fears and anxieties, but increasingly the present seems to have no outstanding qualities of its own, being merely a way-station through which events travel to the vast shadow lands of the past.

People have reflected on the quality of time ever since they've been writing. I suppose I have thought about and written about the question of living in the present - but it only lasts for an instant, and then everything becomes the past. The future, you know nothing about, except for some anticipations you have.