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

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!

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

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

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

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.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

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.

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

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