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

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

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

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.

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

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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 ruins build eternity’s mansions.

This is Year Zero.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

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