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.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

We should not say that one man’s hour is worth another man’s hour, but rather that one man during an hour is worth just as much as another man during an hour. Time is everything, man is nothing; he is, at most, time’s carcass.