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.

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!

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

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.

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

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

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.