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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

Years are nothing to me—they should be nothing to you. Who asked you to count them or to consider them? In the world of wild nature, time is measured by seasons only—the bird does not know how old it is—the rose tree does not count its birthdays!

The best way to fill time is to waste it.