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Forget yesterday — it has already forgotten you. Don't sweat tomorrow — you haven't even met. Instead, open your eyes and your heart to a truly precious gift — today.
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p. 89

 

Steve Maraboli

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Anyone can fight the battles of just one day. It is only when you and I add the battles of those two awful eternities, yesterday and tomorrow, that we break down. It is not the experience of today that drives us mad. It is the remorse or bitterness for something that happened yesterday or the dread of what tomorrow may bring. Let us therefore do our best to live but one day at a time.

 

Richmond Walker

 

They made two thousand years ago seem like yesterday, and yesterday look like today, just as today would, in time, look like tomorrow.

 

Geoff Dyer

 

Naheed, my wife and Nida (my daughter) are the two rulers sitting on the throne of my heart. I travel long and wide to extend their empire. But I never forget them. In my heart are two portraits. Whenever I have an opportunity I bend and see them in my heart. The strings of my heart are in their hands. Farrukh and Rahat are my two eyes. I see the world through them. The world looks so beautiful. When these two eyes open it is daylight for me when the close ,the evening strats.

 

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan

 

I always thought that inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work. You sign onto a process and see where it takes you. You don't have to invent the wheel every day. Today you'll do what you did yesterday and tomorrow you'll do what you did today. Eventually you'll get somewhere. Every great idea I ever had grew out of work itself. If you’re going to wait a around for the clouds to open up and lightning to strike you in the brain you’re not going to make an awful lot of work.

 

Chuck Close

 

Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed — love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.

 

William Faulkner