This is Year Zero.

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

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

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

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

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