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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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!

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

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

This is Year Zero.

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.

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