As we're leaving the King's Arms Hotel after Sunday lunch, I watch a beautiful white dove walking down the wet road. A car approaches and the bird accidentally turns into the wheel rather than away from it. A gentle crunch. The car passes. A shape like a discarded napkin left in the road. Still perfectly white, no red stains, but bearing no relation anymore to the shape of a bird. A trail of white feathers flutter down the road after the car. The suddeness is very upsetting. That gentle crunch.
Life passes most people by while they're making grand plans for it.
Education is simply the soul of a society as it passes from one generation to another.
Nothing lasts and yet nothing passes either, and nothing passes just because nothing lasts.
Le biologiste passe, la grenouille reste. The biologist passes, the frog remains.
Great, it passes on (in constant flow).
Writing novels preserves you in a state of innocence - a lot passes you by - simply because your attention is otherwise diverted.
Bad seed is a robbery of the worst kind: for your pocket-book not only suffers by it, but your preparations are lost and a season passes away unimproved.
Everything passes. (That's what makes it endurable. )
There is a vast quantity of religion current in the world which is not true, genuine Christianity. It passes muster, it satisfies sleepy consciences; but it is not good money. It is not the authentic reality that called itself Christianity in the beginning.
The louder our world today is, the deeper God seems to remain in silence. Silence is the language of eternity; noise passes.
My ideas about time all developed from the realization that if nothing were to change we could not say that time passes. Change is primary, time, if it exists at all, is something we deduce from it.
Our land is the dearer of our sacrifices. The blood of our martyrs sanctifies and enriches it. Their spirit passes into thousands of hearts. How costly is the progress of the race. It is only by the giving of life that we can have life.
The shortest path between two truths in the real domain passes through the complex domain.
I think as humans we're nostalgic creatures and that's what we do. We go back to things that have a semblance of something comforting, or enough time passes that it seems cool again, or maybe it's something that some people didn't even experience.
Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.
Everything passes. There is great beauty in this, both in the passing of pain and in the passing of pleasure. When things present themselves to you as permanent, don't believe it.
When our fingers touch a crackle of electricity passes between us.
Down time is where we become ourselves. . . a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.
What passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human [. . . ] is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic.