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

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

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’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

Those who make the worst use of their time are the first to complain of its brevity.

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

This is Year Zero.

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!

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.

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

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

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.