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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

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.

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

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.

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

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.