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.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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

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.

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

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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

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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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.