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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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!

The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

I look for the end of the future, but it never ceases to arrive. 

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.

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

Time’s ruins build eternity’s mansions.

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