Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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

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.

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

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.