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.

The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive. 

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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

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