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.

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.

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

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.

 Do not lessen the time of following desire, for the wasting of time is an abomination to the spirit.

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

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.

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.

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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

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!