The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.

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

This is Year Zero.

I’ve been on a calendar, but never on time.

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!