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!

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.