The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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.

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

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

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

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.

This is Year Zero.

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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.