There is a time for some things, and a time for all things; a time for great things, and a time for small things.
There are times when it is one’s duty to assert oneself.
There are times and places where not to be anyone is more honourable than to be someone.
The written word has this advantage, that it lasts and can await the time when it is allowed to take effect.
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.
The time which we have at our disposal every day is elastic; the passions that we feel expand it, those that we inspire contract it; and habit fills up what remains.[Le temps dont nous disposons chaque jour est élastique; les passions que nous ressentons le dilatent, celles que nous inspirons le rétrécissent et l’habitude le remplit.]
The reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time.
The public use of man’s reason must always be free, and it alone can bring about enlightenment among men.[Der öffentliche Gebrauch seiner Vernunft muß jederzeit frei sein, und der allein kann Aufklärung unter Menschen zu Stande bringen.]
The misery stayed, not thought about but aching away, and sometimes I would have to ask myself, Why do I ache? Men can get used to anything, but it takes time.
The eagle never lost so much time as when he submitted to learn of the crow.
That time doth not run backward – that is its animosity: “That which was”: so is the stone which it cannot roll called.
Relationships don’t stay the same. There isn’t time.
