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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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

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.

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

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.

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.