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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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.