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 is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

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

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

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 violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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

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

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

This is Year Zero.

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.