William James Quotes

Time, you old gypsy man, will you not stay, put up your caravan just for one day?

Another thing that freaks me out is time. Time is like a book. You have a beginning, a middle and an end. It's just a cycle.

Time slips through our hands like grains of sand, never to return again.

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

Life passes into pages if it passes into anything.

For every minute, the future is becoming the past.

Time doesn't go. Time stays. We go.

Time is numbered only to man.

Time marks us while we are marking time.

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.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.

Eternity ceased gradually to serve as the measure and focus of human actions.

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

Oh, the years fly by, that's just natural.

Time is like a river made up of the events which happen, and a violent stream; for as soon as a thing has been seen, it is carried away, and another comes in its place, and this will be carried away too.

Half a page--and the morning is already ancient.

Time is liquid. One moment is no more important than any other and all moments quickly run away.

Already, it is later than you think for your earthly life at best, is only a blink of an eye between two eternities.

Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.

Life is a stream On which we strew Petal by petal the flower of our heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweeps them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

Today, tomorrow," she said. "A day is nothing. A day is just a match you strike after the ten thousand matches before it have gone out.

Everything we do is tinged with the knowledge that this may be the last time that we will do this, and that makes what we're doing incredibly sweet.

I would have stayed forever within the garden of Re-mose's childhood, but time is a mother's enemy.

A journey is a gesture inscribed in space, it vanishes even as it's made. You go from one place to another place, and on to somewhere else again, and already behind you there is no trace that you were ever there.