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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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