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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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.