A Quote by Jean de la Bruyere

Days, months, years fly away, and irrecoverably sink in the abyss of time. — © Jean de la Bruyere
Days, months, years fly away, and irrecoverably sink in the abyss of time.
I wanted to stay on TV because I've got kids who are school-aged, so I get to see them most days as opposed to going away for movies months and months at a time.
Oh! how the hours hasten to change into days, the days into months, the months into years, and those into life's annihilation!
One cannot walk down an avenue, converse with a friend, enter a building, browse beneath the sandstone arches of an old arcade without meeting an instrument of time. Time is visible in all places. Clock towers, wristwatches, church bells divide years into months, months into days, days into hours, hours into seconds, each increment of time marching after the other in perfect succession. And beyond any particular clock, a vast scaffold of time, stretching across the universe, lays down the law of time equally for all.
In the eternal lazy morning of the Pacific, days slip away into months, months into years; the seasons are reduced to the faintest nuance by the great central fact of the sunshine; one might pass a lifetime, it seems, between two yawns, lying bronzed and naked in the sand.
You will always miss her. There will be days - even years from now - when the missing will be so sharp it will take your breath away. But there will be good days, too, months and years of them. In one way or another you'll be searching for her all your life.
the days, and the months, and the years, pass so swiftly, that I can no longer retain them. Time, in its flight, hurries me away, in spite of myself; in vain I endeavor to stop him, he drags me along: the thought of this alarms me.
One year Halloween came on October 24, three hours after midnight. At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty-three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months, and twenty-four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands. And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more.
We parcel up time into years and months and days because without compartmentalisation the tundra of time is impossible to navigate.
The hours pass and the days and the months and the years, and the past time never returns.
I knew of a man who was sent to the State Prison for twenty-five years. All these years he was always thinking of his home, and counting by years, months, and days, the time till he should be free, and see his family and friends once more.
Dear Sweetheart, Without you my days are endless. Days seem like weeks... Weeks feel like months... Months like years... Years like centuries... Centuries like... You get the idea.
It's like this: The time between having an idea and its public launch is measured in days not months, weeks not years.
This is days and days and months and years and all the minutes in between, just you me.
Forever - is composed of Nows - 'Tis not a different time... Let Months dissolve in further Months - And Years - exhale in Years.
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
Time is only an idea. There is only the Reality. Whatever you think it is, it looks like that. If you call it time, it is time. If you call it existence, it is existence, and so on. After calling it time, you divide it into days and nights, months, years, hours, minutes, etc. Time is immaterial for the Path of Knowledge.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!