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

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.

There is no work of human hands which time does not wear away and reduce to dust.

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!

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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.

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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

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

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