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

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

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

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.

No preacher is listened to but time, which gives us the same train and turn of thought that elder people have in vain tried to put into our heads before.