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

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

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

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

We should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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

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.

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

This is Year Zero.