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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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