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.

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

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

This is Year Zero.

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

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.

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.

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

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.