Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

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

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

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

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.

This is Year Zero.

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

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

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

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

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.