Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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!

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

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

We should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.

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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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.