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

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.

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

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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.

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

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

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

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

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