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

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

Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

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