I have nothing but time in my life, but never enough of it when I need it.
When you think about the period in which Agatha Christie’s crime novels were written, they are actually quite edgy for the time.
Have you ever walked along a beach? You walk towards something in the distance. For the longest while it never seems to get any closer even though you are walking and walking. Then all of a sudden, you are there. You’ve arrived at last. That’s what grief is like. Meanwhile we are running with you in the spray of the surf at the edge of the shore where the sand meets the sea. We are cheering you on.
We enter the world with fists closed and when we leave, our hands are open. He said I should make full use of the time given to me for my life
Time can do all sorts of things. It’s almost like a magician. It can turn autumn into spring and babies into children, seeds into flowers and tadpoles into frogs, caterpillars into cocoons, and cocoons into butterflies. And life into death. There’s nothing that time can’t do. Except run backwards. That’s its trouble really, it can only go one way.
“What about your family, Abu Huwa? Are you an orphan?
Time only goes in that one direction.
The chief beauty about time
is that you cannot waste it in advance.
The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you,
as perfect, as unspoiled,
as if you had never wasted or misapplied
a single moment in all your life.
You can turn over a new leaf every hour
if you choose.
How mean to buy only as many books as one will actually have time to read.
If knowledge is lacking, your destruction is inevitable.