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

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.

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.

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!

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

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