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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

This is Year Zero.

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

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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.

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

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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.

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.