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

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

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!

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.