This is Year Zero.

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

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.

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.