The best way to fill time is to waste it.

Time, when it is left to itself and no definite demands are made on it, cannot be trusted to move at any recognized pace. Usually it loiters, but just when one has come to count upon its slowness, it may suddenly break into a wild irrational gallop.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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

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.

We wish away whole years, and travel through time as through a country filled with many wild and empty wastes, which we would fain hurry over, that we may arrive at those several little settlements or imaginary points of rest which are dispersed up and down in it.

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

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

Time is a veil interposed between God and ourselves, as our eyelid is between our eye and the light.

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