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

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

It would be madness, and inconsistency, to suppose that things which have never yet been performed can be performed without employing some hitherto untried means.

I don’t try to describe the future. I try to prevent it.

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.

Little folks become their little fate.

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

A change of fortune hurts a wise man no more than a change of the moon.

Often the prudent, far from making their destinies, succumb to them; it is destiny which makes them prudent.

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

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

Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.

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