The Man Who Folded Himself

I think I exist, therefore I exist. I think.

Somewhere there exists all the possible variations of all the possible people I could be. I could be any of them- but I cannot be all. I can only be one of the variations. I will be the variation of myself that pleases me the most.

Life is full of little surprises. Time travel is full of big ones.

I felt like a kid at Santa Claus's funeral.

The fifties are a peaceful time, a quiet sleeping time between two noisy bursts of years, a blue and white time filled with sweet yellow days, music and bright smelling memories.

My body may be male or it may be female, but I am neither — I am me.

I had to learn to relax, that was the problem. Other people had always unnerved me because I thought they were continually judging me. How do I look? What kind of person do I seem? Is my voice firm enough? Am I really intelligent or just pedantic? Was that joke really funny, or am I making a fool of myself? I worried about the impression I was making. If I was shy, did they think I was being aloof and call me a snob? If I tried to be friendly, did they find me overbearing? I was always afraid that I was basically unlikable, so I wouldn't give anyone the chance to find out; or I tried too hard to be likable, and thereby proved that I wasn't.

The past is the future. The future is the past. There’s no difference between the two and either can be changed. I’m flashing across a series of alternate worlds, creating and destroying a new one every time I bounce. The universe is infinite. And so are the possibilities of my life.

Falling on your face in public might be embarrassing, but not making the attempt at all is an even bigger failure.

The terrible thing about death is that you don’t know you’ve died. —Or is that the terrible thing? Maybe that’s the blessing.

I’m the only person who exists in my world—but isn’t it that way for all of us?

(It’s said that the only immortality a man can achieve is through his children. I understand that now.)

How do I get a message across the timelines?

If time travel is the ultimate personal freedom, then it’s also the ultimate personal responsibility.

I was the disastrous première of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. And Ravel’s Bolero too.

If I am a homosexual, then I am that way by choice.

As I was going up the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. I wish, I wish he’d go away! —HUGHES MEARNS The Psychoed

the proper study of humanity is humanity itself. History is not just old news. It’s people.

Two remarkable towers. And beyond that, she became something

There was nothing else to do,

think I loved my Danny more. And I think I know why.