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

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

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.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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!

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

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