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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

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.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

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

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

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