Oh! how the hours hasten to change into days, the days into months, the months into years, and those into life's annihilation!

Tonight I think again of many days that are sacrificed for one night of love. Of the waste and the fruit of the waste, of plenty and of fire. And how painlessly-time.

Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges.

There is no time for cut-and-dried monotony. There is time for work. And time for love. That leaves no other time!

Who is moving in the distance? It is the clock's pendulum, Hired by the god of death To measure life.

From your past emerges the present, and from the present is born your future.

It is the strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually time is neutral. It can be used either destructively or constructively. I am coming to feel that the people of ill will have not used time much more effectively than the people of good will.

I must govern the clock, not be governed by it.

Wasting time is an unbearable punishment.

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still. Like when they say, "As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end."