Dry snow coming down in the hills.
Magpies hair-triggered and thuggish in worn trees.
A wall has started to fall in you, it will take years to land.
Mots clés time
Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.
Haruki MurakamiMots clés time
Time for us began to be measured by moments when we spoke, and moments when we longed to speak again.
Richie SinghMots clés love romance time relationships lover
Later on in life, you expect a bit of rest, don't you? You think you deserve it. I did, anyway. But then you begin to understand that the reward of merit is not life's business.
Julian BarnesMots clés life age history philosophy time memory meaning rest
Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time's malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing--until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return.
Julian BarnesMots clés life history time literature fiction
This was long before the term 'single-parent family' came into use; back then it was a 'broken home'...
Julian BarnesOutside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.
Ali SmithMots clés time live seasons lack september end-of-summer make-the-most
Though why should we expect age to mellow us? If it isn't life's business to reward merit, why should it be life's business to give us warm, comfortable feelings towards its end? What possible evolutionary purpose could nostalgia serve?
Julian BarnesMots clés age history philosophy time nostalgia memory personality mellow merit
Then Deborah stood at the wicket gate, the boundary, and there was a woman with outstretched hand, demanding tickets.
"Pass through," she said when Deborah reached her. "We saw you coming." The wicket gate became a turnstile. Deborah pushed against it and there was no resistance, she was through.
"What is it?" she asked. "Am I really here at last? Is this the bottom of the pool?"
"It could be," smiled the woman. "There are so many ways. You just happened to choose this one."
Other people were pressing to come through. They had no faces, they were only shadows. Deborah stood aside to let them by, and in a moment they had gone, all phantoms.
"Why only now, tonight?" asked Deborah. "Why not in the afternoon, when I came to the pool?"
"It's a trick," said the woman. "You seize on the moment in time. We were here this afternoon. We're always here. Our life goes on around you, but nobody knows it. The trick's easier by night, that's all."
"Am I dreaming, then?" asked Deborah.
"No," said the woman, "this isn't a dream. And it isn't death, either. It's the secret world."
The secret world... It was something Deborah had always known, and now the pattern was complete. The memory of it, and the relief, were so tremendous that something seemed to burst inside her heart.
"Of course..." she said, "of course..." and everything that had ever been fell into place. There was no disharmony. The joy was indescribable, and the surge of feeling, like wings about her in the air, lifted her away from the turnstile and the woman, and she had all knowledge. That was it - the invasion of knowledge. ("The Pool")
Mots clés imagination innocence knowledge time death night fantasy childhood creativity dream secret
In the first of our conversations, you explained how different time was for you—how it’s an abstraction. Some hours glide past like birds, others are slow, plodding behemoths, stubborn and unwilling to leave.
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