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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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.

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

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

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

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

For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.

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.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

Time’s violence rends the soul; by the rent eternity enters.

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