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.

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

If both what is before and what is after are in this same “now,” things which happened ten thousand years ago would be simultaneous with what has happened today, and nothing would be before or after anything else.

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.

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

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.

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

The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

Nothing puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing puzzles me less, for I never think about them.

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

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