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

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.

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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.