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

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

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

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.

This is Year Zero.

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

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

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

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