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

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

In time history must become a fairy tale—it will become again what it was in the beginning.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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

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.