Kristin Hannah Quotes

Youth passes like a dream.

How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

And so I ask myself: 'Where are your dreams?' And I shake my head and mutter: 'How the years go by!' And I ask myself again: 'What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived? Look,' I say to myself, 'how cold it is becoming all over the world!' And more years will pass and behind them will creep grim isolation. Tottering senility will come hobbling, leaning on a crutch, and behind these will come unrelieved boredom and despair. The world of fancies will fade, dreams will wilt and die and fall like autumn leaves from the trees. . . .

Dreams age faster than dreamers.

I often feel that life is about to begin, only to realize it is almost over.

Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.

The brief span of our poor unhappy life to its final hour Is hastening on; and while we drink and call for gay wreaths, Perfumes, and young girls, old age creeps upon us, unperceived.

Nothing lasts forever but we always try, and I just can't help but wonder why we let it pass us by

You're young. Maybe there'll be time for a do-over if you don't get it right the first time. But there are no guarantees. There will come a time as it has for me when there's no time for a do-over.

But when to-morrow comes, yesterday's morrow will have been already spent: and lo! a fresh morrow will be for ever making away with our years, each just beyond our grasp.

You can have your youth It'll rot before your eyes

So we must love, while these moments are still called today, take part in the pain of this passion play, stretching our youth as we must, until we are ashes to dust, until time makes history of us.

The years thunder by, The dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

Time goes, you say? Ah, no! alas, time stays, we go.

A woman would rather visit her own grave than the place where she has been young and beautiful after she is aged and ugly.

The clock never stops, never stops, never waits. We're growing old. It's getting late.

My birthday is Feb. 11, and I'm both excited and not excited by it. You'll never be 15 again, and you really, really need to savor every day like it's your last.

I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.

I can't believe I've turned into a typical old man. I can't believe it. I was young just minutes ago.

The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

One time, I was young. I was skinny. I was elegant. Getting old is terrible.

The right moment wears a full head of hair: when it has been missed, you can't get it back; it's bald in the back of the head and never turns around.