Charles Portis Quotes

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

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?

Men talk of killing time, while time quietly kills them.

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

Time flies never to be recalled.

If you're not getting older, you're dead.

Age isn't important until you run out of it.

Whatever shall we do in that remote spot? Well, we will write our memoirs. Work is the scythe of time.

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.

Life is short. Time is short. As we get older, time does quicken. It's long, and it's long pertaining to that thought, that the past is not done with you because you can't rid of it.

Turning 50 gives me more yesterdays than tomorrows.

Every hour has its end.

You can never know how your clock runs. But it does run - and always faster than you think.

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

'Back To Love' is a way of letting people know that sometimes you get caught up in trying to be successful in school or in your social life, and it's a reminder not to forget that each day people are getting older. Nobody is promised tomorrow, so we should make sure that we spend quality time with quality people.

Life is much shorter than I imagined it to be.

Every time I think that I am getting old, and gradually going to the grave, something else happens.

Surely a long life must be somewhat tedious, since we are forced to call in so many trifling things to help rid us of our time, which will never return.

The minute you're born, you're getting older.

Life holds one great but quite commonplace mystery. Though shared by each of us and known to all, seldom rates a second thought. That mystery, which most of us take for granted and never think twice about, is time.

But meanwhile time flies; it flies never to be regained.

Life is short and the older you get, the more you feel it. Indeed, the shorter it is.

The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.

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

Every time I think that I'm getting old, and gradually going to the grave, something else happens.