I call the process “Revival.” I usually go back between one and five minutes. 

 I like being part of a team, man. 

 What you have to do to traverse a wormhole is have two openings. What we did tonight is open one end of it. 

 “There is no Time machine,” it says. “We are not supposed to be here but our Time line pinched and we are in big trouble unless you can help.” 

 You’re going to feel apart from other people. That doesn’t go away. 

1. Married women—Fiction.
2. Physicists—Fiction.
3. Quantum theory—Fiction.

 He can read her face, and can tell that she agrees the opinion that he himself is too politic to speak aloud: that the papers being delivered today are not that good. They are not very interesting. They are parsimoniously doled out fingernail parings of thought, bloated into full length by badly written prose and extensive recapitulations of material with which an audience of this kind would already be familiar. They are evidence that the desire to bide one’s time in order to do good science has be sublimated to the constant drive to publish; as the saying goes, the committees that hand out funds and grand tenure cannot read, but they can count. 

 No-ma-chine! No-ma-chine! 

 He is an old man at her birth, a youth at her third birthday party, and a fifty-something when he walks her to her first day of kindergarten. 

 Dad, do you think time travel is possible? 

 What should you do if a mosasaur comes up out of the sewer and into your bathroom? 

 His story was ridiculous, but he really did look like me plus twenty years, and he knew things about me that nobody else could know. 

 Coulson: Like, in Terminator, if John Connor’s alive and able to send his friend back in time to save his mom to make sure he’s born, doesn’t that mean he doesn’t have to?
Lincoln: I, uh, never saw the original Terminator.
Coulson: You’re off the team. 

 My father set a time trap? 

 Of course, that thought immediately slipped her mind when she turned on the news and saw the main story for the day: time travel had been discovered. 

 Jim: We have a time machine. We have a time machine! None of this has to happen, okay? Somebody goes back and they warn us not to come. So whoever the killer is, he doesn’t get to kill anybody, not today.
Bubbles: Yeah, that’s good.
Gale: Yeah.
Randy: No, we can’t do that. We’ll cause a paradox! 

 It’s not a game, and it’s not a dream. I can time-travel. Clint can. Bruce, too, when he’s not writing on the ground, and apparently so can you. 

 The past is written; the ink is dry. 

 Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. 

 We’ve got a reactant coolant leak! 

 Correct, little algorithm, but we are not in your present. We transmitted ourselves by tachyons into the past, back into the stelliferous period, to one of the first galaxies. We have been working here in the morning of the Universe for twelve million years. 

 “The odd ones from the future and the past,” she said, matter-of-factly. “The ones who taught us that the past and future are not one simple path but more like a basket full of loose threads. And all these threads are strung together with different starting points and different events, like knots, along the threads.” 

 Ruptures in space time . . . quantum [gobbledygook] . . . not linear. 

 . . . and a grandmother of three writes her suicide note in the same room that Helen is talking to her therapist, who says that the human mind is a primate one, that we are drawn to the exciting and the new and gloss over the day to day lest we go insane in the details, and the first mammals crawl into and from the trees . . . 

 The Bush bust passed through the vortex, catching fire through friction as it shot through time. 

 Do not worry if one of your quantum selves accidentally “kills” your grandfather in a lovers’ quarrel over your grandmother’s affections. Remember, when the wave function collapses, only one of your selves will be “real.” Simply reset your parricidal self and move on. 

 “We exist within a glitch of the space-time continuum,” he said, hands flailing, “and are doomed to relive this exact moment, this exact conversation, forever.” 

 I felt like something was being stripped away from me. From inside. Like something was being unwound. I don’t know it that’s the right way to explain it. I couldn’t explain it. It was just one of those feelings without a name. 

 The mists are time itself, or at least time as it exists here. 

 ♫If I had my time again, I would do it all the same, they say, but that’s insane—surely you’d want to make a couple of fixes!♫ 

 You have a time machine and you’re not doing anything important or helping anyone. All you’re doing messing with me. 

 I am the most powerful witch in the world, and you are armed with a snowball. Do you know what that means? 

 I already tried that. 

 Faster than light travel makes it possible to send an observer out and back before he left. 

 Lucy? What the hell has gotten into you? And who’s Amy? 

 When all was quiet, he walked into the future in his dreams. He saw these Turtle Men at a village like his mother's, perhaps his mother's village. All villages met the same fate. 

 Two months earlier, the time traveler had appeared, and taught Leo the mourner’s Kaddish. 

 The closest I can come to the giant spider’s name is Mmdhf. She loves to talk philosophy. 

 We, the last and broken memories, vow to undo the errors of our ancestors, to make the Earth whole, the lost unlost, at the peril of our own birth.