The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.