The bell that measures time is ringing
He has to find more and better ways of occupying his time. His time, what a bankrupt idea, as if he's been given a box of time belonging to him alone, stuffed to the brim with hours and minutes that he can spend like money. Trouble is, the box has holes in it and the time is running out, no matter what he does with it.
The ochre-yellow linoleum floor hasn't been scrubbed for some time; splotches of dirt bloom on it like grey pressed flowers.
Time rises and rises, and when it reaches the level of your eyes you drown.
Time: old cold time, old sorrow, settling down in layers like silt in a pond.
But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another.
. . . time is compressed like the fist I close on my knee. . . . I hold inside it the clues and solutions and the power for what I must do now.
Once upon a time you could wander around one country, then the next and then maybe you'd go to England or wherever. Now they all want you to do it at the same time and you can't. It's just not physically possible.
Myths can't be translated as they did in their ancient soil. We can only find our own meaning in our own time.
I've never understood why people consider youth a time of freedom and joy. It's probably because they have forgotten their own.
More Margaret Atwood Quotations (Based on Topics)
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