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!

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

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.

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.

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

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

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.

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.

This is Year Zero.

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