Cronos Quotes

Hector...boast while you may. The victory is yours, a gift from Zeus the Son of Cronos and Apollo. They conquered me...Listen to this and ponder it well. You too, I swear it, have not long to live. Already sovran Destiny and Death are very close to you, death at the hands of Achilles, the peerless son of Peleus

Sit still and wait for orders from your officers, who are better men than you, coward and weakling that you are, counting for nothing in battle or debate. We cannot all be kings here; and mob rule is a bad thing. Let there be one commander only, one king, set over us by Zeus the Son of Cronos of the Crooked Ways

no es un bien la soberanía de muchos; uno solo sea príncipe, uno solo rey: aquél a quien el hijo del artero Crono ha dado cetro y leyes para que reine sobre nosotros.

Cronos, then lord of the world, knew that no mortal nature could endure the temptations of power, and therefore he appointed demons or demi-gods, who are of a superior race, to have dominion over man, as man has dominion over the animals

And there was no longer a single race who bred blindly and without question. Time and its agonizing nostalgia would touch the heart each season, and be seen in the fall of a leaf, or, most terrible of all, a loved face would grow old. Cronos and the Fates had entered man's thinking, and try to escape as he might, he would endure an interior Ice Age. He would make, and then unmake fables. Then at last, and unwillingly, comprehend an intangible abstraction called space-time, and shiver inwardly at the endless abysses of space as he had once shivered, unclothed and unlighted before the Earthly frost.

— T’es vraiment trop mignonne ! J’ai envie de te dévorer toute crue ! — Encore ? remarque Deimos en arrivant à notre niveau. Mais pourquoi tout le monde veut manger notre enfant ? — Mais parce qu’elle est beaucoup trop choupinette et potelée ! m’exclamé-je. Ça n’a pas l’air de convaincre Deimos qui grimace. — Cronos faisait ça avec les siens, ça n’avait rien d’adorable. Vu sous cet angle…

Now in the days of Cronos there existed a law respecting the destiny of man, which has always been, and still continues to be in Heaven,—that he who has lived all his life in justice and holiness shall go, when he is dead, to the Islands of the Blessed, and dwell there in perfect happiness out of the reach of evil; but that he who has lived unjustly and impiously shall go to the house of vengeance and punishment, which is called Tartarus.

Ya nadie sabe que el astillero era la percha en donde se colgaban las armas, ni la adarga un escudo ligero, ni el rocín un caballo de trabajo, y Francisco Rico nos lo tiene que explicar en sus notas. Señores, les pronostico que en el 2105, en el quinto centenario del gran libro de Cervantes, no habrá celebraciones como éstas. Dentro de cien años, cuando al paso a que vamos el Quijote sean puras notas de pie de página, ya no habrá nada qué celebrar, pues no habrá Quijote. La suprema burla de Cronos será entonces que tengamos que traducir el Quijote al español.

From the Heliconian Muses let us begin to sing, who hold the great and holy mount of Helicon, and dance on soft feet about the deep-blue spring and the altar of the almighty son of Cronos, and, when they have washed their tender bodies in Permessus or in the Horse's Spring or Olmeius, make their fair, lovely dances upon highest Helicon and move with vigorous feet. Thence they arise and go abroad by night, veiled in thick mist, and utter their song with lovely voice, praising Zeus the aegis-holder and queenly Hera of Argos who walks on golden sandals and the daughter of Zeus the aegis-holder bright-eyed Athene, and Phoebus Apollo, and Artemis who delights in arrows, and Poseidon the earth-holder who shakes the earth, and reverend Themis and quick-glancing Aphrodite, and Hebe with the crown of gold, and fair Dione, Leto, Iapetus, and Cronos the crafty counsellor, Eos and great Helius and bright Selene, Earth too, and great Oceanus, and dark Night, and the holy race of all the other deathless ones that are for ever. And one day they taught Hesiod glorious song while he was shepherding his lambs under holy Helicon, and this word first the goddesses said to me—the Muses of Olympus, daughters of Zeus who holds the aegis: 'Shepherds of the wilderness, wretched things of shame, mere bellies, we know how to speak many false things as though they were true; but we know, when we will, to utter true things'.

From an innovative trio of Dutch, Finnish, and German designers comes a unique concept: a typeface with not one, but three italics. First, the roman: a sprightly, monolinear Humanist. Where Cronos feels like careful calligraphy, Auto is quick writing — the clear but energetic marks of a lively pen. The italics — labeled as Auto 1, 2, and 3 — offer increasingly expressive forms. The progression is like the growth of a plant, starting with basic stems that grow from buds into long vines that visibly overlap where they change direction, and that then extend to long swashes. The three options let users choose the level of embellishment while retaining the type’s basic weight and constitution. This is the same character playing

In Classical mythology, righteous wrath was the province of old women. Three very specific old women, in fact: the Furies (or the Erinyes, in Greek). Fragments of myth featuring the Furies are found in the earliest records of ancient Greek culture. These sisters were much more ancient than any of the Olympian deities, indicating the persistence of an older, female-dominated tradition which endured here and there even when later, more patriarchal, mythologies set in. The role of the Furies was to preside over complaints brought to them by humans about behavior that was thought to be intolerable: from lesser misdemeanors such as the insolence of the young to the aged, of children to parents, of hosts to guests — to crimes that were very much worse. It was their role to punish such crimes by relentlessly hounding their perpetrators. The Greek poet Hesiod names the three sisters as Alecto — “unceasing in anger,” the punisher of moral crimes; Megaera — “jealous one,” the punisher of infidelity, oath-breaking, and theft; and Tisiphone — “avenger of murder.” They were, he said, the daughters of Gaea (the goddess who personified the Earth), who conceived them from the blood of her spouse, Uranus, after he had been castrated by his son, Cronos. They lived in the Underworld, and like other chthonic deities, like seeds that lie buried beneath the Earth, they were also identified with its fertility. The wrath of the Furies manifested itself in a number of ways: a tormenting madness would be inflicted on the perpetrator of a patricide or matricide; murderers usually suffered a dire disease, and nations which harbored such criminals could be stricken with famine and plague. The Furies could only be placated with ritual purification, and the completion of a task specifically assigned by them for atonement. It’s important to understand that although the Furies were feared, they were also respected and perceived to be necessary: they represented justice, and were seen to be defenders of moral and legal order. The Furies were portrayed as the foul-smelling, decidedly haggish possessors of bat-like wings, with black snakes adorning their hair, arms, and waists, and blood dripping from their eyes. And they carried brass-studded scourges in their hands. In my menopausal years, I certainly had days when I could have gone with that look. I’m happy to admit that the existence of seriously not-to-be-messed-with elder women like the Furies in our oldest European mythology gives me great pleasure. And it’s difficult not to see them as the perfect menopausal role models, because sudden upwellings of (mostly righteous) anger are a feature of many women’s experience of menopause

Su Realidad seguía la línea de la máxima probabilidad. Si aquella máxima probabilidad comprendía una pandemia, o diez Siglos de economía esclavista, o la ruina de la tecnología hasta..., vamos a ver, algo realmente pernicioso..., incluso hasta la guerra atómica si eso hubiera sido posible en aquel tiempo, ¡por Cronos!, aquello sucedía.

Los no esencialistas tienden a estar tan preocupados por los éxitos y fracasos pasados, así como por los retos y las oportunidades futuros, que se pierden el momento presente. Se vuelven distraídos. Desconcentrados. No están realmente ahí. El proceder del esencialista es sintonizarse con el presente. Experimentar la vida en kairós, no solamente en cronos. Concentrarse en las cosas que son de verdad importantes, no en el ayer ni en el mañana, sino en el ahora.

Ocho segundos. LeMond entra en meta y espera. Su tiempo es fastuoso, con la media de velocidad más alta de la historia del Tour de Francia en una crono. Espera, espera. Ya está Lo ha hecho. Salta de alegría, no se lo cree. Grita. Retumban sus alaridos en el cielo azul parisino. Acaba de protagonizar el retorno más increíble de la historia del deporte. El hombre que dos años antes estaba luchando en un hospital por su vida ha ganado el Tour de Francia. Enrolado en un equipo modesto que ni siquiera estaba invitado a esa carrera. Corriendo sin compañeros. Remontando una distancia aparentemente insalvable en la última etapa.

Ocho segundos. LeMond entra en meta y espera. Su tiempo es fastuoso, con la media de velocidad más alta de la historia del Tour de Francia en una crono. Espera, espera. Ya está Lo ha hecho. Salta de alegría, no se lo cree. Grita. Retumban sus alaridos en el cielo azul parisino. Acaba de protagonizar el retorno más increíble de la historia del deporte. El hombre que dos años antes estaba luchando en un hospital por su vida ha ganado el Tour de Francia. Enrolado en un equipo modesto que ni siquiera estaba invitado a esa carrera. Corriendo sin compañeros. Remontando una distancia aparentemente insalvable en la última etapa. Por tan sólo ocho segundos. Ocho segundos. Uno. Dos. Tres. Cuatro. Cinco. Seis. Siete. Ocho. Fignon llora en silencio, intentando hundirse en la multitud, diluirse en el aire de la ciudad que ya jamás podrá sentir, no del todo, suya. LeMond lo ha logrado. Solloza él también, lágrimas tan diferentes de las del francés. Al fondo, Perico mira todo con gesto de tranquilidad. Subirá al pódium, en tercer lugar. Ha sido el más fuerte. El más regular. Ha marcado a todos en la montaña con su pedalada imposible, ha recuperado más puestos en la clasificación general que cualquiera antes que él en esa carrera. Pero no ha sido posible. Luxemburgo. Fue en Luxemburgo. LeMond llora. Fignon Llora. Perico sonríe. Se termina una época. Antes y después La irrealidad de la mirada

En Bormio Coppi viste el rosa y desviste el blanco. Es su quinto Giro de Italia. Leyenda, por si hacía falta, aún mayor. Jamás volverá a ganar esa carrera. Al año siguiente la Corsa empieza con una crono por escuadras en Palermo, donde se impone su Bianchi. Para celebrarlo el campeón organiza esa noche mariscada con champán. Unas ostras en mal estado encogen su estómago, y le hacen perder al día siguiente casi una docena de minutos. Aquella maglia rosa, aquella que le arrancaron los moluscos podridos, será la última que vista el más grande ciclista que jamás haya visto el Giro de Italia.

Se convirtió en profesional en 1947, consiguiendo la contrarreloj final de la edición de aquel año del Tour de Francia, crono que, con sus 139 km, sigue siendo todavía la más larga disputada en la historia del Tour;

In the Works and Days, Hesiod relates the degeneration of man’s history down from the distant Golden Age of Cronos to his own pernicious Age of Iron. It is a synchronic paradigm of human history, a ‘steady declension of nature’, in which men decline in moral character and fortune from the first to the final period. His story links the ‘good old days’ of Cronos to the golden period of Eastern lore which like it, also is followed by succeeding periods of silver, bronze and iron, into which he inserts, however, an anomalous Heroic Aeon in an attempt … ‘to idealize [sic] the life depicted in Homeric times’.

I saw you die," she said. "I will never forget it. Cronos broke you." She could not look at Hecate, but she could feel her gaze. "I love Hades. I will not live without him," she said. "But I cannot live without you either, Hecate." "Oh, my dear," she said, her voice thick with tears. "You will never have to." When Persephone looked up, she saw that Hecate's eyes were watering, but the tears never fell. Instead, she drew Persephone into a hug, and when she pulled away, she touched her chin. "I do not have children of my own," Hecate said. "But you, I consider a daughter.

According to Robert Graves, Cronos was the grain-god of a barley cult in which human sacrifice was the rule; this was a fairly common practice in many cultures at the time. Often in ancient societies, priestesses and priests enacted the myths of their deities in order to keep in tune with the cycles of the seasons. Many cultures, perhaps Crete among them, believed that the seasonal and agricultural cycles would not continue if the proper rituals were not enacted. Graves likened Cronos to the British god Bran, who was also a sacrificial barley-king. He also suggested that the Bran cult was imported from the Aegean, perhaps from Crete itself. It is more likely that the idea of a grain-god simply moved across Europe with the spread of agriculture during the Neolithic period.

After all, in my young days, few girls reached the age of thirteen without being raped. Hellenic girls made little of such a thing and could always account for their baby by saying that Poseidon, or Zeus, or ancient Cronos, even, had visited them in their dreams.

Sob a mensagem mais evidente está outra, que se refere ao tenpo (Crono, o nome grego de Saturno). O tempo é tanto velho como novo. Oculto na eternidade está o frescor do agora; oculto no agora, está o mistério da eternidade.

Insomma, gli abbiamo insegnato tutto del libro all'epoca in cui non sapeva leggere. Gli abbiamo rivelato l'infinita diversità delle cose immaginarie, l'abbiamo iniziato alle gioie del viaggio verticale, l'abbiamo dotato dell'ubiquità, liberato da Crono, immerso nella solitudine favolosamente affollata del lettore... Le storie che gli leggevamo brulicavano di fratelli, sorelle, doppi ideali, squadriglie di angeli custodi, schiere di amici tutelari che si facevano carico delle sue pene, ma che, lottando contro i propri orchi, trovavano anch'essi rifugio fra i battiti inquieti del suo cuore. Era diventato il loro angelo reciproco: un lettore. Senza di lui, il loro mondo non esisteva. Senza di loro, lui rimaneva imprigionato nello spessore del suo. Così scoprì la virtù paradossale della lettura, che è quella di astrarci dal mondo per trovargli un senso.

Luego fue al Tour sin ninguna presión, perdió un cuarto de hora en las cronos y las llanuras de la primera semana, remontó con una facilidad pasmosa en los montes, batió el récord de la subida al Alpe d’Huez (37’15”) y se plantó en el podio final de París, tras Induráin y Ugriúmov, vestido con el maillot blanco al mejor joven.

Marco Pantani, contrarrelojista espantoso, se jugó el Giro en la crono de Lugano. En 34 kilómetros tenía que defender una renta de 1’28” sobre Tonkov, que una semana antes le había sacado 2’04” en los 40 kilómetros de Trieste. Cuando todo apuntaba a un final apretadísimo, Pantani caminó sobre las aguas: acabó tercero en la etapa a solo medio minuto del especialista ucraniano Serguéi Gonchar (oro, plata y bronce en los Mundiales contrarreloj) y le sacó cinco segundos a Tonkov.

Entretanto el niño Dios o como quiera llamársele Destino o simplemente Cronos se aburre como una ostra y emprende el vuelo en dirección al Cementerio General.   II   Tal como se indicó en el poema anterior el niño travieso llega al cementerio hace saltar la tapa de los sepulcros los difuntos se incorporan de las tumbas se oyen golpes a la distancia reina un desconcierto general.   Los difuntos parecen cansados con los pies llenos de tierra y sin abandonar aún las tumbas conversan animadamente entre sí como deportistas que se dan una ducha.  

Un oracolo aveva predetto che Crono stesso sarebbe stato spodestato da uno dei suoi figli, per questo motivo decise di ingoiarli appena nati. "Chrónos", con l'accezione di "tempo", assume il significato metaforico del tempo che divora tutte le cose che lui stesso ha creato.

La más antigua narra el nacimiento de Zeus en una gruta de Creta, lugar donde su madre tuvo que ocultarle para impedir que Cronos lo devorase como hacía con todos sus hijos. La diosa Gea se ocupó de darle cobijo, así como de entregarle a Cronos una piedra envuelta en pañales

Cuando hallaba a algún hombre del pueblo lanzando alaridos, con el cetro le daba y después lo increpaba, diciendo: —¡Miserable! Detente y no grites y escucha a los hombres 200 que en valor te aventajan. Tú, débil y lleno de miedo, no eres en el combate estimado y tampoco en el ágora. Aquí todos los hombres aqueos no pueden ser reyes, pues la soberanía de muchos no es buena; que mande uno solo, y tengamos un rey, ese a quien cetro y leyes 205 para ello le dio el hijo del astucísimo Cronos.

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Cuando la lucha entre los titanes y los dioses comenzó, el mundo tembló. Durante innumerables lunas el futuro de todos los seres, los creados y los que todavía estaban por crear, se jugó en cada batalla, en cada escaramuza. Con la ayuda de los hermanos de Crono, los dioses lograron por fin la victoria: los cíclopes forjaron para Zeus el rayo, para Hades, un casco que lo volvía invisible como la muerte, y para Poseidón, un tridente con cuyo choque temblaban mares y tierras. Ya vencedor, Zeus ordenó que Crono y los demás titanes fueran encadenados para siempre en el Tártaro, y que los monstruosos hecatonquiros, de cien brazos, fueran sus guardianes. El mundo de los dioses comenzó así a despoblarse de seres excesivos tras ser estos relegados, por fin, a las profundidades del oscuro Tártaro y nadie volvió a tener noticias de ellos. El gran Zeus, el dios atronador, se hizo así con el poder en los cielos después de dos generaciones.