“Despite our strongly felt kinship and oneness with nature, all the evidence suggests that nature doesn’t care one whit about us.”

While people can be doubted, time cannot be doubted. While people brood, time skips ahead without looking back.

Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone.

In this world, time has three dimensions, like space.

A good book changes for you every few years because you are in a different place in your own life. That’s a sign of a good novel.

Each future moves in a different direction of time. Each future is real.

Scientists turn reckless and mutter like gamblers who cannot stop betting. Scientists are buffoons, not because they are rational but because the cosmos is irrational.

A book, especially a longer book, it’s a different kind of force that pushes you through it. It’s a vision of the whole thing.

Sadness is no more than a bit of acid transfixed in the cerebellum.

I consider myself an essayist and a fiction writer. In the essays, I certainly have been influenced by some of the leading science essayists. Like Loren Eiseley, Stephen Jay Gould, Lewis Thomas.

Suppose time is a circle, bending back on itself. The world repeats itself, precisely, endlessly.

We have become disembodied. By being always somewhere else we are nowhere.

In restaurants, walking, they have cell phones clamped to their to heads.

No one knows the nature of God, or even if God exists. In a sense, all of our religions are literary works of the imagination.

Body time flows at its own variable rate, oblivious to the most precise hydrogen master clocks in the laboratory. In fact, the human body contains its own exquisite time-pieces, all with their separate rhythms.

That’s an exciting thing. In a class of fifteen there are usually two very good writers, equal to good student writers anywhere in the country. Those two make the class wonderful.

In a world in which time is a circle, every handshake, every kiss, every birth, every word, will be repeated precisely.