The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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

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

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.

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

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

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

This is Year Zero.

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

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

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

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.