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.

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.

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

A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.

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.

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

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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!

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