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.

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.

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

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

This is Year Zero.

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

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

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.

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.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive.