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

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.

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.

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

This is Year Zero.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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!

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

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

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.