Chronos Quotes

but BEing time is never wasted time. When we are BEing, not only are we collaborating with chronological time, but we are touching on kairos, and are freed from the normal restrictions of time.

Sooner or later, Chrono believed, the magical forces of the Universe would put everything back together again. They always did.

History is sacred—like a nature hike. ‘Leave only footprints, take only memories.

I was born on a Thursday, hence the name. My brother was born on a Monday and they called him Anton--go figure. My mother was called Wednesday, but was born on a Sunday--I don't know why--and my father had no name at all--his identity and existence had been scrubbed by the ChronoGuard after he went rogue. To all intents and purposes he didn't exist at all. It didn't matter. He was always Dad to me...

Chronos is clocks, deadlines, watches, calendars, agendas, planners, schedules, beepers. Chronos is time at her worst. Chronos keeps track. ...Chronos is the world's time. Kairos is transcendence, infinity, reverence, joy, passion, love, the Sacred. Kairos is intimacy with the Real. Kairos is time at her best. ...Kairos is Spirit's time. We exist in chronos. We long for kairos. That's our duality. Chronos requires speed so that it won't be wasted. Kairos requires space so that it might be savored. We do in chronos. In kairos we're allowed to be ... It takes only a moment to cross over from chronos into kairos, but it does take a moment. All that kairos asks is our willingness to stop running long enough to hear the music of the spheres.

Some things, however, should happen in the correct order. Shoes go on after socks. Peanut butter is applied after the bread comes out of the toaster, not before. And grandchildren are born after their grandparents.

My father wrote beautifully,” Esmé interrupted. “I’m saving a number of his letters for posterity.” I said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at her enormous-faced, chrono-graphic-looking wristwatch again. I asked if it had belonged to her father. She looked down at her wrist solemnly. “Yes, it did,” she said. “He gave it to me just before Charles and I were evacuated.” Self-consciously, she took her hand off the table, saying, “Purely as a momento, of course.” She guided the conversation in a different direction. “I’d be extremely flattered if you’d write a story exclusively for me sometime. I’m an avid reader.” I told her I certainly would, if I could. I said that I wasn’t terribly prolific. “It doesn’t have to be terribly prolific! Just so that isn’t childish and silly.” She reflected. “I prefer stories about squalor.” “About what?” I said, leaning forward. “Squalor. I’m extremely interested in squalor.

I was young and in love, and that rarely leads to wise decisions.

Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good.

You cannot hide from your heart, Kate. It always finds you. And, sadly, I cannot hide from mine.

The heart does not know chronos time, Maisie.

It’s a hard lesson in life, but you have to accept that some things are out of your hands. Otherwise, you’ll never know a single minute of peace. You mend what you can, and you let the rest go. You just let it go.

Dude slapped me and then walked away!

Franciscan friar Richard Rohr says that there are two kinds of time, at least according to the ancient Greeks. There is chronos—or chronological, ordered time—and then there is kairos. Kairos is subjective, qualitative. Deep Time is what Rohr calls it. A fullness, he says. The moments when the dots of our lives connect.

I know, 0 Caesar, that thou art awaiting my arrival with impatience, that thy true heart of a friend is yearning day and night for me. I know that thou art ready to cover me with gifts, make me prefect of the pretorian guards, and command Tigellinus to be that which the gods made him, a mule-driver in those lands which thou didst inherit after poisoning Domitius. Pardon me, however, for I swear to thee by Hades, and by the shades of thy mother, thy wife, thy brother, and Seneca, that I cannot go to thee. Life is a great treasure. I have taken the most precious jewels from that treasure, but in life there are many things which I cannot endure any longer. Do not suppose, I pray, that I am offended because thou didst kill thy mother, thy wife, and thy brother; that thou didst burn Eome and send to Erebus all the honest men in thy dominions. No, grandson of Chronos. Death is the inheritance of man; from thee other deeds could not have been expected. But to destroy one's ear for whole years with thy poetry, to see thy belly of a Domitius on slim legs whirled about in a Pyrrhic dance; to hear thy music, thy declamation, thy doggerel verses, wretched poet of the suburbs, — is a thing surpassing my power, and it has roused in me the wish to die. Eome stuffs its ears when it hears thee; the world reviles thee. I can blush for thee no longer, and I have no wish to do so. The howls of Cerberus, though resembling thy music, will be less offensive to me, for I have never been the friend of Cerberus, and I need not be ashamed of his howling. Farewell, but make no music; commit murder, but write no verses; poison people, but dance not; be an incendiary, but play not on a cithara. This is the wish and the last friendly counsel sent thee by the — Arbiter Elegantiae.

The Special Operations Network was instigated to handle policing duties considered either too unusual or too specialized to be tackled by the regular force. There were thirty departments in all, starting at the more mundane Neighborly Disputes (SO-30) and going onto Literary Detectives (SO-27) and Art Crime (SO-24). Anything below SO-20 was restricted information, although it was common knowledge that the ChronoGuard was SO-12 and Antiterrorism SO-9. It is rumored that SO-1 was the department that polices the SpecOps themselves. Quite what the others do is anyone's guess. What is known is that the individual operatives themselves are mostly ex-military or ex-police and slightly unbalanced. 'If you want to be a SpecOp,' the saying goes, 'act kinda weird...

Golden Rule—whoever has the gold makes the rules.

Y Chronos se come nuestras vidas cada segundo que pasa...

Storytelling requires two minds. The writer draws the basic outlines and adds some detail. It’s never complete, however, until the reader fills in that outline with the colors and experiences of his or her own life.

CHRONO-SYNCLASTIC INFUNDIBULA—Just imagine that your Daddy is the smartest man who ever lived on Earth, and he knows everything there is to find out, and he is exactly right about everything, and he can prove he is right about everything. Now imagine another little child on some nice world a million light years away, and that little child’s Daddy is the smartest man who ever lived on that nice world so far away. And he is just as smart and just as right as your Daddy is. Both Daddies are smart, and both Daddies are right.    Only if they ever met each other they would get into a terrible argument, because they wouldn’t agree on anything. Now, you can say that your Daddy is right and the other little child’s Daddy is wrong, but the Universe is an awfully big place. There is room enough for an awful lot of people to be right about things and still not agree.    The reason both Daddies can be right and still get into terrible fights is because there are so many different ways of being right. There are places in the Universe, though, where each Daddy could finally catch on to what the other Daddy was talking about. These places are where all the different kinds of truths fit together as nicely as the parts in your Daddy’s solar watch. We call these places chrono-synclastic infundibula.    The Solar System seems to be full of chrono-synclastic infundibula. There is one great big one we are sure of that likes to stay between Earth and Mars. We know about that one because an Earth man and his Earth dog ran right into it.    You might think it would be nice to go to a chrono-synclastic infundibulum and see all the different ways to be absolutely right, but it is a very dangerous thing to do. The poor man and his poor dog are scattered far and wide, not just through space, but through time, too.    Chrono (kroh-no) means time. Synclastic (sin-class-tick) means curved toward the same side in all directions, like the skin of an orange. Infundibulum (in-fun-dib-u-lum) is what the ancient Romans like Julius Caesar and Nero called a funnel. If you don’t know what a funnel is, get Mommy to show you one.

Life is a series of changes—a process of going from the old to the new—from chronos to kairos. Growth, change, revival—all are processes. Life is connected. Not understanding this, we tend to despise the chronos times of preparing, sowing, believing and persevering. Our preference is to always live in the kairos times of fresh and strategic opportunities.

And one day, if I see your smile on her face, maybe that'll keep me from feeling I've left a piece of my heart behind.

Each of us knows when it’s time to wake, eat and rest. We don’t need to read a clock for these activities; we need to listen.

It sickens me that humans, who are capable of such goodness and love, can also be the tools of horrifying atrocities, as if possessed by the very demons they claim to hate and fear.

like Niemöller said, if you ignore it when they’re taking rights from everyone else, pretty soon they’ll come after yours, and there’s no one left to protest.

So I sat at the kitchen table chopping the “holy trinity” of Creole cuisine—bell peppers, celery, and onions—

Try not to think too badly of me as you read it. I was young and in love, and that rarely leads to wise decisions.

The discovery of the chrono-synclastic infundibula said to mankind in effect: "What makes you think you're going anywhere?

Thirty days have Salo, Niles, June, and September, Winston, Chrono, Kazak, and November, April, Rumfoord, Newport, and Infundibulum. All the rest, baby mine, have thirty-one. The

Pop, like Chronos the Titan, always eats its darlings.

The way of the Essentialist is to tune into the present. To experience life in kairos, not just chronos. To focus on the things that are truly important—not yesterday or tomorrow, but right now.

It is possible to be so worried about the time (chronos) for something—such as the return of Christ—that we miss the time (kairos) for something—such as living like citizens of the kingdom of God.

All major religions have rules against murder. If they didn’t, there would be few converts. Well, at least few converts that you’d want to be in the same room with. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t plenty of people willing to kill in the name of their faith—that’s true of most religions.

Our actions and attitudes in the chronos times of preparing, sowing, believing and persevering are what determine whether God can shift us into the kairos times of fresh and strategic opportunities.

The Song Of The Happy Shepherd The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed; Grey Truth is now her painted toy; Yet still she turns her restless head: But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good. Where are now the warring kings, Word be-mockers?—By the Rood, Where are now the watring kings? An idle word is now their glory, By the stammering schoolboy said, Reading some entangled story: The kings of the old time are dead; The wandering earth herself may be Only a sudden flaming word, In clanging space a moment heard, Troubling the endless reverie. Then nowise worship dusty deeds, Nor seek, for this is also sooth, To hunger fiercely after truth, Lest all thy toiling only breeds New dreams, new dreams; there is no truth Saving in thine own heart. Seek, then, No learning from the starry men, Who follow with the optic glass The whirling ways of stars that pass— Seek, then, for this is also sooth, No word of theirs—the cold star-bane Has cloven and rent their hearts in twain, And dead is all their human truth. Go gather by the humming sea Some twisted, echo-harbouring shell. And to its lips thy story tell, And they thy comforters will be. Rewording in melodious guile Thy fretful words a little while, Till they shall singing fade in ruth And die a pearly brotherhood; For words alone are certain good: Sing, then, for this is also sooth. I must be gone: there is a grave Where daffodil and lily wave, And I would please the hapless faun, Buried under the sleepy ground, With mirthful songs before the dawn. His shouting days with mirth were crowned; And still I dream he treads the lawn, Walking ghostly in the dew, Pierced by my glad singing through, My songs of old earth’s dreamy youth: But ah! she dreams not now; dream thou! For fair are poppies on the brow: Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

Tick is a humble genesis, tock a feeble apocalypse; and tick-tock is in any case not much of a plot. We need much larger ones and much more complicated ones if we persist in finding 'what will suffice.' And what happens if the organization is much more complex than tick-tock? Suppose, for instance, that it is a thousand-page novel. Then it obviously will not lie within what is called our 'temporal horizon'; to maintain the experience of organization we shall need many more fictional devices. And although they will essentially be of the same kind as calling the second of those two related sounds tock, they will obviously be more resourceful and elaborate. They have to defeat the tendency of the interval between tick and tock to empty itself; to maintain within that interval following tick a lively expectation of tock, and a sense that however remote tock may be, all that happens happens as if tock were certainly following. All such plotting presupposes and requires that an end will bestow upon the whole duration and meaning. To put it another way, the interval must be purged of simple chronicity, of the emptiness of tock-tick., humanly uninteresting successiveness. It is required to be a significant season, kairos poised between beginning and end. It has to be, on a scale much greater than that which concerns the psychologists, an instance of what they call 'temporal integration'--our way of bundling together perception of the present, memory of the past, and expectation of the future, in a common organization. Within this organization that which was conceived of as simply successive becomes charged with past and future: what was chronos becomes kairos. This is the time of the novelist, a transformation of mere successiveness which has been likened, by writers as different as Forster and Musil, to the experience of love, the erotic consciousness which makes divinely satisfactory sense out of the commonplace person.

Time has to be converted, then, from chronos, mere chronological time, to kairos, a New Testament Greek word that has to do with opportunity, with moments that seem ripe for their intended purpose. Then, even while life continues to seem harried, while it continues to have hard moments, we say, “Something good is happening amid all this.” We get glimpses of how God might be working out his purposes in our days. Time becomes not just something to get through or manipulate or manage, but the arena of God’s work with us. Whatever happens— good things or bad, pleasant or problematic—we look and ask, “What might God be doing here?” We see the events of the day as continuing occasions to change the heart. Time points to Another and begins to speak to us of God. We

Each year, humanity died a little more. ChronoCom’s charter was to fight that decline, yet things had never gotten better. Every year, there was a little less power to utilize. People went hungry a little longer. Lived lives a little harder. They were losing this war.

Some people feel they’re being oppressed or held back, even if they have everything they need or everything that a reasonable person could want. Some people always want more.

Watching people you love walk into danger is a hundred times harder than walking into it yourself.

What if you had the chance to go back and tell yourself not to make the mistakes you made? A chance to change everything you think went wrong in your life?” “Well,

It’s like Niemöller said, if you ignore it when they’re taking rights from everyone else, pretty soon they’ll come after yours, and there’s no one left to protest.

But—” I start to say. “It never helps to start a sentence from behind,” Katherine says, trying to add some lightness to the conversation.

How much time is wasted today training children to perform a variety of skills that they not only will never use but would never even consider using?

That may well be the only unchanging fact in the universe—everything changes.

7Do not attempt to conquer the world with force. Force yields only resistance.

Having your existence completely erased has to qualify as a life-changing event, by anyone’s definition.

Amelia hides a soft heart behind a shrew's tongue.

If your faith is so shaky that it can be undermined by books that challenge it, then something is rotten at the core.

Prudence Katherine Pierce-Keller, time-traveling ninja.” “Oh, ho… funny.” I laughed and then faked an angry look. “Lawrence Alma Coleman the Third clearly likes to live dangerously.

Don’t even think it. Move all the way back. Both of you. On your stomachs, hands behind your heads. Now!” Yeah, it’s straight out of NCIS. I guess Mom’s crush on that Gibbs guy came in handy.

When we are properly prepared and the time is right, God can shift seasons very quickly. Overnight, it seems, He transforms dry times into rivers, barrenness into fruitfulness and makes a way where there is no way. Timing is a factor; but when it’s right, God causes the shift, and the chronos changes into kairos. Allow this truth to bring faith and encouragement into your situation.

Waiting politely won’t get you across the street in Boston,” he informs me, “at least not in 1905. There aren’t any of those blinking idiot signs that show a hand and count down the seconds for you.

Stafford's Hypothesis on The Transference of Existence: Even if you self-isolated, stood still, and held your breath after traveling into the past, you would still be a pebble diverting the flow of time in some way. The very transference of existence via wormholes, not interaction with past actors or events, creates paradoxes. Time Transference has three stages: 1. The distance traversed between the origin or starting point of the wormhole and the rip in the Chronosphere (space-time continuum). 2. The transference of biological material through the rip in the Chronosphere without damage to or mutation of the genetic code of the chrono-commuter. 3. Arrival at the endpoint of the time transference - the reconstruction of the chrono-commuter's genetic material and the sealing of the rip in the Chronosphere.

As I’m reading Katherine’s historical diaries, every now and then I’ll see a question that Katherine asked, like, ‘Who is the Infanta?’ or ‘What is a simoleon?’” “In SimCity, a simoleon is money,” Trey interjected.

The plot is deceptively simple. Condensed even fur- ther, it might read as a personal ad in some questfinder’s forum: Unlikely hero to save world from cataclysm. Seeks motley assortment of companions. Sidequests guaranteed.

You need one of those recap sequences,” Trey says. “Like, ‘Hi, I’m Kate. Here are a few things you might need to know.’” Charlayne smiles. “Previously on The Vampire Diaries.” “Or,” Ben says, “‘ The Timeline So Far,’ like on Supernatural.

[Saturn, or the Latin age of the gods. Year of the world 2491.] 73 This is the age of the gods beginning among the nations of Latium and corresponding in character to the golden age of the Greeks, among whom our mythology will show [544ff] that the first gold was grain, by the harvests of which for many centuries the first nations counted their years [407]. Saturn was so called by the Latins from sati, sown [fields], and is called Chronos by the Greeks, among whom chronos means time, whence comes the word chronology.

Saul is a devout believer only in himself, and he was convinced that the religious faith of others, if manipulated skillfully, was an excellent path to the power he sought. He was studying religions of the world in order to pick up tips on how to build his own.

Kiernan. I had a sudden memory of the small, scuffed-up shoe I’d seen just before I fell. He must have snatched the bracelet when the crowd gathered around me. If I managed to get out, I resolved to give him every last penny I had and cover his little face with kisses.

What Kant took to be the necessary schemata of reality,' says a modern Freudian, 'are really only the necessary schemata of repression.' And an experimental psychologist adds that 'a sense of time can only exist where there is submission to reality.' To see everything as out of mere succession is to behave like a man drugged or insane. Literature and history, as we know them, are not like that; they must submit, be repressed. It is characteristic of the stage we are now at, I think, that the question of how far this submission ought to go--or, to put it the other way, how far one may cultivate fictional patterns or paradigms--is one which is debated, under various forms, by existentialist philosophers, by novelists and anti-novelists, by all who condemn the myths of historiography. It is a debate of fundamental interest, I think, and I shall discuss it in my fifth talk. Certainly, it seems, there must, even when we have achieved a modern degree of clerical scepticism, be some submission to the fictive patterns. For one thing, a systematic submission of this kind is almost another way of describing what we call 'form.' 'An inter-connexion of parts all mutually implied'; a duration (rather than a space) organizing the moment in terms of the end, giving meaning to the interval between tick and tock because we humanly do not want it to be an indeterminate interval between the tick of birth and the tock of death. That is a way of speaking in temporal terms of literary form. One thinks again of the Bible: of a beginning and an end (denied by the physicist Aristotle to the world) but humanly acceptable (and allowed by him to plots). Revelation, which epitomizes the Bible, puts our fate into a book, and calls it the book of life, which is the holy city. Revelation answers the command, 'write the things which thou hast seen, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter'--'what is past and passing and to come'--and the command to make these things interdependent. Our novels do likewise. Biology and cultural adaptation require it; the End is a fact of life and a fact of the imagination, working out from the middle, the human crisis. As the theologians say, we 'live from the End,' even if the world should be endless. We need ends and kairoi and the pleroma, even now when the history of the world has so terribly and so untidily expanded its endless successiveness. We re-create the horizons we have abolished, the structures that have collapsed; and we do so in terms of the old patterns, adapting them to our new worlds. Ends, for example, become a matter of images, figures for what does not exist except humanly. Our stories must recognize mere successiveness but not be merely successive; Ulysses, for example, may be said to unite the irreducible chronos of Dublin with the irreducible kairoi of Homer. In the middest, we look for a fullness of time, for beginning, middle, and end in concord. For concord or consonance really is the root of the matter, even in a world which thinks it can only be a fiction. The theologians revive typology, and are followed by the literary critics. We seek to repeat the performance of the New Testament, a book which rewrites and requites another book and achieves harmony with it rather than questioning its truth. One of the seminal remarks of modern literary thought was Eliot's observation that in the timeless order of literature this process is continued. Thus we secularize the principle which recurs from the New Testament through Alexandrian allegory and Renaissance Neo-Platonism to our own time. We achieve our secular concords of past and present and future, modifying the past and allowing for the future without falsifying our own moment of crisis. We need, and provide, fictions of concord.

And whilst everyone believed that the universe began with Chaos, it did not. It began with Vacuos[Void], his granddaddy.But before Vacuos died, or just turned into empty space, which was what a void was, Vacuos begot, all by himself,a son, Chronos[Time]. And just before Chronos died or just turned into ticking time, Chronos begot, all by himself, a three-fold son, Chaos[Confusion] who could turn into Love or Hate. And it was Chaos who begot the Sky[Uranus], the Earth[Gaea] & everything else in the egg which Eros held together before the Big Bang.

His briefcase, now very worn though not particularly old, continued to direct his endless outgoings and incomings, from the four legs of his bed to the four legs of his office desk and back again. His key went from lock to pocket, and back to the lock. Then one day there yawned before the key not a lock and not a pocket but, shall we say, an abyss. One might, of course, having slipped one’s key into the abyss, turn it twice from left to right. The resident did just that, but… we mustn’t violate the logic of chronos or, as it’s generally known, chronological order.

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It’s regular time. It’s one minute at a time, staring down the clock until bedtime time. It’s ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, four screaming minutes in time-out time, two hours until Daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow-passing time we parents often live in. Then there’s Kairos time. Kairos is God’s time. It’s time outside of time. It’s metaphysical time. Kairos is those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day, and I cherish them.

Maybe Eve should never have plucked the damn apple from the tree…or maybe Adam should have had the balls to pluck it first. Maybe we should never have split the atom…or maybe we should have wiped out all our enemies when we were the only ones who had the bomb. You can go round and round, but none of this matters once the genie is out of the bottle.

Things settled into a lazy pattern. School, chores, and long hours down by the river. Kiernan talked about the books he read sometimes, even loaned me a few. But I liked it better when he read to me or just told me the stories. The words were more real that way, more exciting. Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Ragged Dick, and all the others seemed flat and dull on the page, but Kiernan was good at making them come alive.

Just as Chronos split the heavens from earth, time divided the universe, and destroyed the eternal, changeless being that was the ten-dimensional universe. After that, all civilizations had to exist within the limits of time and space. The universe became the infinite unknown. With time came hope, anticipation, surprise, remembrance, oblivion … and above all, freedom.” “These are meaningless,” said Sophon drily. “Eternity is the only existence.” “That wasn’t how the Lurker felt. It was suffocating under the ten-dimensional universe, with its perfect symmetry and eternal immutability. As the dimensions collapsed, more and more consciousnesses, separated from the unity of the Edenic Age, came to believe in the Lurker’s cause and joined its legion. Risking annihilation, they wanted to join time and to call for yet more time. This was the reason the Master failed, don’t you see? “They need time. Other than the Master, all living beings need time.

You can tell me all about the new job and lecture me about my lack of focus once I’m done with this mission and giving you this sweater in person. But you’d better meet me somewhere civilized and comfortable, because I’m done with impossible environments.” The comm goes still, and she feels a small ping of guilt for ignoring him. Most ships can’t even handle communications at this range, but the Resistance does have some wonderful toys. Vi puts her boots up and leans back in her seat, focusing on the unwieldy wooden knitting needles that look more like primitive weapons than elegant tools. “It’s all about forward momentum, Gigi,” she says to her astromech, U5-GG. “Better a hideous sweater infused with love than…I don’t know. What other gifts do people give their only living relative? A nice chrono? I shall continue to the end, if imperfectly.” She spins in her chair and holds up what she’s accomplished so far. “What do you think?” Gigi beeps and boops in what sounds

But what if it can’t be fixed?” I ask before I even realize I’m going to speak. “Or if I can’t fix it without hurting even more people?” Sister Elba pauses to close the armonica case and then walks toward the steps, stopping a few short feet away from the bench where she will die. “People faced those kinds of decisions every day during the War and after. It’s a hard lesson in life, but you have to accept that some things are out of your hands. Otherwise, you’ll never know a single minute of peace. You mend what you can, and you let the rest go. You just let it go.

Bohr is really doing what the Stoic allegorists did to close the gap between their world and Homer's, or what St. Augustine did when he explained, against the evidence, the concord of the canonical scriptures. The dissonances as well as the harmonies have to be made concordant by means of some ultimate complementarity. Later biblical scholarship has sought different explanations, and more sophisticated concords; but the motive is the same, however the methods may differ. An epoch, as Einstein remarked, is the instruments of its research. Stoic physics, biblical typology, Copenhagen quantum theory, are all different, but all use concord-fictions and assert complementarities. Such fictions meet a need. They seem to do what Bacon said poetry could: 'give some show of satisfaction to the mind, wherein the nature of things doth seem to deny it.' Literary fictions ( Bacon's 'poetry') do likewise. One consequence is that they change, for the same reason that patristic allegory is not the same thing, though it may be essentially the same kind of thing, as the physicists' Principle of Complementarity. The show of satisfaction will only serve when there seems to be a degree of real compliance with reality as we, from time to time, imagine it. Thus we might imagine a constant value for the irreconcileable observations of the reason and the imagination, the one immersed in chronos, the other in kairos; but the proportions vary indeterminably. Or, when we find 'what will suffice,' the element of what I have called the paradigmatic will vary. We measure and order time with our fictions; but time seems, in reality, to be ever more diverse and less and less subject to any uniform system of measurement. Thus we think of the past in very different timescales, according to what we are doing; the time of the art-historian is different from that of the geologist, that of the football coach from the anthropologist's. There is a time of clocks, a time of radioactive carbon, a time even of linguistic change, as in lexicostatics. None of these is the same as the 'structural' or 'family' time of sociology. George Kubler in his book The Shape of Time distinguished between 'absolute' and 'systematic' age, a hierarchy of durations from that of the coral reef to that of the solar year. Our ways of filling the interval between the tick and tock must grow more difficult and more selfcritical, as well as more various; the need we continue to feel is a need of concord, and we supply it by increasingly varied concord-fictions. They change as the reality from which we, in the middest, seek a show of satisfaction, changes; because 'times change.' The fictions by which we seek to find 'what will suffice' change also. They change because we no longer live in a world with an historical tick which will certainly be consummated by a definitive tock. And among all the other changing fictions, literary fictions take their place. They find out about the changing world on our behalf; they arrange our complementarities. They do this, for some of us, perhaps better than history, perhaps better than theology, largely because they are consciously false; but the way to understand their development is to see how they are related to those other fictional systems. It is not that we are connoisseurs of chaos, but that we are surrounded by it, and equipped for coexistence with it only by our fictive powers. This may, in the absence of a supreme fiction-or the possibility of it, be a hard fate; which is why the poet of that fiction is compelled to say From this the poem springs: that we live in a place That is not our own, and much more, nor ourselves And hard it is, in spite of blazoned days.

Pru shrugs. “I wasn’t sure how long they’d hold our reservation.” A sly grin spreads over her face. “I thought maybe you and Kiernan were just catching up on old times. Although I guess that might have been awkward with your new guy around.” Mom chokes on her tea and gives me a questioning look. I start to respond, but Trey beats me to it. “Perhaps,” he says in a level voice, staring directly at Pru. “But no more awkward than sitting across the table from the aunt who sneaked into her boyfriend’s bedroom.” Pru’s eyebrows rise gradually, and she does a slow clap, her grin widening. “Ooh, touché! After your rather

Sei, divino Cesar, que me esperas com impaciencia e que, victima da fidelidade do teu coração, gemes com saudades minhas noite e dia. Sei que me accumularias de favores, que me offerecias ser prefeito da tua guarda e que nomearias Tigellino guardador de mulas, em qualquer das propriedades que herdaste, depois do envenenamento de Domicia - cargo para o qual parece ter sido creado pelos deuses. Mas, ai! tens de me desculpar. Pelo Hades e, em particular, pelos manes de tua mãe, de tua mulher, de teu irmão e de Seneca, juro-te que me é impossivel estar ao pé de ti. A vida é um thesoiro, meu amigo, e lisonjeio-me de ter sabido extrahir d'esse thesoiro as joias mais preciosas. Mas ha coisas na vida que sou incapaz de supportar durante mais tempo. Não vás pensar, conjuro-te, que me melindrou o assassinio de tua mãe, de tua mulher, de teu irmão, que me indignei com o incendio de Roma, que fiquei magoado com o processo que consiste em mandar para Erebo toda a gente honesta do teu Imperio... Não, meu caro neto de Chronos! A morte é a herança commum dos entes sublunares, e, demais, não havia maneira de procederes d'outra forma. Mas supportar, durante muitos annos ainda, o teu canto que me fere os ouvidos, vêr as tuas pernas domicianas - as tuas tibias descarnadas - saracotearem-se na dança pirrhyca, vêr-te representar, ouvir-te declamar, ouvir-te recitar poemas escriptos por ti, pobre poeta de feira!... ah! na verdade, semelhante perspectiva era superior ás minhas fôrças. E senti em mim a incoercivel necessidade de ir ter com os meus paes. Roma tapa os ouvidos, o universo cobre-te de gargalhadas. Não quero tornar a córar por tua causa. Não quero, não posso mais! O uivar de Cerbero, se se pudesse comparar com o teu modo de cantar, meu amigo, affligir-me-hia menos, porque nunca fui amigo de Cerbero e não tinha por dever envergonhar-me da sua voz. Tem saúde, mas deixa-te de canto; mata, mas não faças versos; envenena, mas não dances; incendeia cidades, mas abandona a cithara. Tal é o ultimo voto e o amigavel conselho que te dá o Arbitro das Elegancias.

That the line does not consist of points, nor the plane of lines, follows from their concepts, for the line is the point existing outside of itself relating itself to space, and suspending itself and the plane is just as much the suspended line existing outside of itself.-Here the point is represented as the first and positive entity, and taken as the starting point. The converse, though, is also true: in as far as space is positive, the plane is the first negation and the line is the second, which, however, is in its truth the negation relating self to self, the point. The necessity of the transition is the same.- The other configurations of space considered by geometry are further qualitative limitations of a spatial abstraction, of the plane, or of a limited spatial whole. Here there occur a few necessary moments, for example, that the triangle is the first rectilinear figure, that all other figures must, to be determined, be reduced to it or to the square, and so on.-The principle of these figures is the identity of the understanding, which determines the figurations as regular, and in this way grounds the relationships and sets them in place, which it now becomes the purpose of science to know. Negativity, which as point relates itself to space and in space develops its determinations as line and plane, is, however, in the sphere of self-externality equally for itself and appearing indifferent to the motionless coexistence of space. Negativity, thus posited for itself is time. Time, as the negative unity of being outside of itself, is just as thoroughly abstract, ideal being: being which, since it is, is not, and since it is not, is If these determinations (of Kant, the forms of intuition or sensation) are applied to space and time, then space is abstract objectivity, whereas time is abstract subjectivity (“the pure I=I of self-consciousness” but still the concept is in its pure externality). Time is just as continuous as space, for it is abstract negativity relating itself to itself and in this abstraction there is as yet no real difference. In time, it is said, everything arises and passes away, or rather, there appears precisely the abstraction of arising and falling away. If abstractions are made from everything, namely, from the fullness of time just as much as from the fullness of space, then there remains both empty time and empty space left over; that is, there are then posited these abstractions of exteriority.-But time itself is this becoming, this existing abstraction, the Chronos who gives birth to everything and destroys his offspring.-That which is real, however, is just as identical to as distinct from time. Everything is transitory that is temporal, that is, exists only in time or, like the concept, is not in itself pure negativity. To be sure, this negativity is in everything as its immanent, universal essence, but the temporal is not adequate to this essence, and therefore relates to this negativity in terms of its power. Time itself is eternal, for it is neither just any time, nor the moment now, but time as time is its concept. The concept, however, in its identity with itself I= I, is in and for itself absolute negativity and freedom. Time, is not, therefore, the power of the concept, nor is the concept in time and temporal; on the contrary, the concept is the power of time, which is only this negativity as externality.-The natural is therefore subordinate to time, insofar as it is finite; that which is true, by contrast, the idea, the spirit, is eternal. Thus the concept of eternity must not be grasped as if it were suspended time, or in any case not in the sense that eternity would come after time, for this would turn eternity into the future, in other words into a moment of time.

The cake was sinfully decadent, dripping with chocolate, exactly the way a birthday cake should be.

holy trinity” of Creole cuisine—bell peppers, celery, and onions—while

humans have failed to protect the Planet, the Planet shall protect itself.

should not be confused with Chronos, the God of Time or Father Time.

Chronos didn't say anything more, and they just stood like that; Ren with his head down, Chronos behind him with his hand on his shoulder.

When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.

Katherine leaned forward, pushing the glowing

that increasing the role of religion in society would make things worse, not better.

After he cut off their genitals, Chronos threw them into the sea, where they floated in a "white foam." Out of this foam‒or "Aphros” in ancient Greek‒sprang forth the first goddess. Just as Eros had been present at the establishment of the first power system, Aphrodite, the more elaborate representative of love and desire, would be present to usher in the next.

Bending time is about making the most out of chronos—finding more physical time, adding hours to the day, and positioning for a greater number of kairos moments. Bending time is about improving quality of life and productivity within time.

ChronoGuard

Yes, I use my chamber pot to punish the wicked. Just not the tea pot. The tea pot is strictly for tea. If you wish to know, my chamber pot is five miles across, deep as Abaddon’s eyes and filled daily with excrement so foul as to make harpies regurgitate the bones of mortals devoured when St. Chronos was a youngster. I fill the chamber pot myself, most mornings. Usually while reading. I take my time. It’s a moment of quiet, which Infernum knows, Infernum lacks. Often I have my most inspiring thoughts right there atop the pot.

Tanjecterly is only one of ten worlds, including our good Gaean Earth, which old Father Chronos swings on a noose. Some are the realms of demons, others are not even so useful as this. Visbhume opened a hole into Tanjecterly with his key, but it seems that sometimes holes open of themselves to let men fall through willy-nilly, to their vast surprise, and so to disappear for ever. But this is all to the side. A certain indomitable sorcerer by the name of Ticely Twitten made a study of these worlds and his almanac measures what he calls “pulses” and “quavers”. Time does not go in Tanjecterly, for instance, in consonance with time here. A minute here may be an hour there, or the opposite may be true.

I remember hugging Chronos at night and burrowing my face in his fur, letting his purring replace the static that her words had left in my head.

Do you think you can contact Chronos?” she asked him, calm and steady.

The future is not written in stone,” Chronos said, watching her calmly. “There are many possible paths that the future can take at any given time, and those paths are constantly changing based on every decision made. Even deities like Nyx and Erebus, who can see where those paths might lead, are not always correct.

The discovery of the chrono-synclastic infundibula said to mankind in effect: "What makes you think you’re going anywhere?

She was right. In California, individuals with service animals couldn’t be denied because of their animal. There were expectations, of course, but the courts of California were just as crazy as their laws. Even if the cat were ripping up the blinds and pissing on the carpet, it was better than dealing with a judge and paying an overpriced attorney. Courtrooms were where taxpayer money went to die.

I darted across the hallway and took a left at the next intersection, hoping that the doctor would assume that I’d taken the quicker, easier turn to the right.

The heel of my white kidskin boot ripped a six-inch gash in the hem of my skirt as I whipped around the corner.

I’d pegged you as cute-but-boring. But it looks like Kate’s little pet has claws.

Usain Bolt

I no longer believe that there are clear sides in all of this. It’s not black or white, good or evil, from where I’m standing. Here in the middle, everything looks gray.

Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle

Penso che sia importante sapere di essere desiderati, magari perfino di essere necessari, non credete? Ci dà qualcosa a cui aggrapparci quando siamo smarriti in un posto estraneo.

time is it?" I'm hesitant to ask, since it means she'll speak again and my head really can't take it, but

But most people are fools,” Tilson continues. “They see exactly what they want to see and nothing more. It’s like Niemöller said, if you ignore it when they’re taking rights from everyone else, pretty soon they’ll come after yours, and there’s no one left to protest.