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

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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.