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!

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

This is Year Zero.

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.

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

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