Here lies one from a distant star, but the soil is not alien to him, for in death he belongs to the universe.

Much of what we see in the universe ... starts out as imaginary. Often you must imagine something before you can come to terms with it.

This is written in the elder days as the Earth rides close to the rim of eternity, edging nearer to the dying Sun, into which her two inner companions of the solar system have already plunged to a fiery death. The Twilight of the Gods is history; and our planet drifts on and on into that oblivion from which nothing escapes, to which time itself may be dedicated in the final cosmic reckoning.

Here lies one from a distant star, but the soil is not alien to him, for in death he belongs to the universe.

When I talk of the purpose of life, I am thinking not only of human life, but of all life on Earth and of the life which must exist upon other planets throughout the universe.

Time is still the great mystery to us. It is no more than a concept; we don't know if it even exists.

And time itself? Time was a never-ending medium that stretched into the future and the past - except there was no future and no past, but an infinite number of brackets, extending either way, each bracket enclosing its single phase of the Universe.