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.

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.