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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

This is Year Zero.

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

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

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

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, 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.

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.

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.

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.