The world is dying of machinery; that is the great disease, that is the plague that will sweep away and destroy civilization; man will have to rise against it sooner or later.

My interest is in the future, because I am going to spend the rest of my life there.

As natural selection works solely by and for the good of each being, all corporeal and mental endowments will tend to progress toward perfection.

Fate leads the willing and drags along those who hang back.

God seems to have left the receiver off the hook, and time is running out.

The future, like everything else, is no longer quite what it used to be.

The less a man knows about the past and the present, the more insecure must prove to be his judgment of the future.

Tomorrow never comes, man. It’s all the same fucking day.

Men are able to assist fortune but not to thwart her. They can weave her designs, but they cannot destroy them.

All progress is based upon a universal, innate desire on the part of every organism to live beyond its income.

Not a change for the better in our human housekeeping has ever taken place that wise and good men have not opposed it—have not prophesied that the world would wake up to find its throat cut in consequence.

The future...something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is.

The future comes like an unwelcome guest.