Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

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

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

They say, “We only have the life of this world. We die and we live, and nothing destroys us but time.” Yet, not true knowledge have they of this—only belief.

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