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

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

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

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.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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.

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

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.

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.

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