The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.

They say, “We only have the life of this world. We die and we live, and nothing destroys us but time.” Yet, not true knowledge have they of this—only belief.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

We should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

Time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters, but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop.