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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

This is Year Zero.

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.