present

What is the worst pain? To me, it’s always the pain that is present.

Suzanne Collins, Catching Fire

There came a time when you realized that moving on was pointless. That you took yourself with you wherever you went.

Stephen King, Doctor Sleep

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

Once you hear something, you can never return to the time before you heard it.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

Memory was supposed to fill the time, but it made time a hole to be filled. Each second was two hundred yards, to be walked, crawled. You couldn’t see the next hour, it was so far in the distance. Tomorrow was over the horizon, and would take an entire day to reach.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

If in the past people would listen to music out of love for music, nowadays it roars everywhere and all the time, “regardless whether we want to hear it”, it roars from loudspeakers, in cars, in restaurants, in elevators, in the streets, in waiting rooms, in gyms, in the earpieces of Walkmans, music rewritten, reorchestrated, abridged, and stretched out, fragments of rock, of jazz, of opera, a flood of everything jumbled together so that we don’t know who composed it (music become noise is anonymous), so that we can’t tell beginning from end (music become noise has no form): sewage-water music in which music is dying.

Milan Kundera, Ignorance

Now time has a very different look; it is no longer the conquering present capturing the future; it is the present conquered and captured and carried off by the past.

Milan Kundera, Ignorance

Man can only be certain about the present moment. But is that quite true either? Can he really know the present? Is he in a position to make any judgment about it? Certainly not. For how can a person with no knowledge of the future understand the meaning of the present? If we do not know what future the present is leading us toward, how can we say whether this present is good or bad, whether it deserves our concurrence, or our suspicion, or our hatred?

Milan Kundera, Ignorance

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