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.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

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.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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, 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.

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.

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.

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

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