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.

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

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

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

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.

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.

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

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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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