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

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

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

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

This is Year Zero.

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.

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

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.

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

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

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