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

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

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.

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.

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!

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.

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

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

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.

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