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

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

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.

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

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.

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.

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

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

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