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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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