Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive. 

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.

Thou art not to learn the humors and tricks of that old bald cheater, time.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

This is Year Zero.

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

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

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.

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!

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.