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

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

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

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.

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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.

This is Year Zero.

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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.

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