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

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

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

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’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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

Without music to decorate it, time is just a bunch of boring production deadlines or dates by which bills must be paid.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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

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