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

This is Year Zero.

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

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.