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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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

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

Time rushes toward us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation.