I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

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

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

This is Year Zero.

My stern chase after time is, to borrow a simile from Tom Paine, like the race of a man with a wooden leg after a horse.

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

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

We wish away whole years, and travel through time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dispersed up and down in it.

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

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.