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.

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

This is Year Zero.

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.

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

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 best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

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

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.

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