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.

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

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

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

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.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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, 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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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