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

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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.

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.

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.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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.

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.