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

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

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.

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

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