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

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

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.

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

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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 should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.

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.

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

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.