Lapham’s Quarterly

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

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.

Our allotted time is the passing of a shadow.

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

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.

The past is always tense and the future, perfect.

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.

They say, “We only have the life of this world. We die and we live, and nothing destroys us but time.” Yet, not true knowledge have they of this—only belief.

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

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