In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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.

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

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.