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!

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.

This is Year Zero.

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

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.