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.

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

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive. 

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.

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.

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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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.

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

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.