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

The celestial machine is to be likened not to a divine organism but rather to a clockwork.

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

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

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!

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

The best way to fill time is to waste it.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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 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.

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

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