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

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

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

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

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.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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 past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

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.

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