In some sense man is a microcosm of the universe; therefore what man is, is a clue to the universe. We are enfolded in the universe.

The crux is that the vast majority of the mass of the universe seems to be missing.

I don't pretend to understand the Universe -- it's a great deal bigger than I am.

Nothing is lost yet, nothing broken, and yet the cold blue word is spoken: say goodbye now to the Sun, the days of love and leaves are done.

I have never grown out of the infantile belief that the universe was made for me to suck.

If there is nothing wrong with me, maybe there's something wrong with the universe.

Like buried treasures, the outposts of the universe have beckoned to the adventurous from immemorial times...

The universe seems to me infinitely strange and foreign. At such a moment I gaze upon it with a mixture of anguish and euphoria; separate from the universe, as though placed at a certain distance outside it; I look and I see pictures, creatures that move in a kind of timeless time and spaceless space, emitting sounds that are a kind of language I no longer understand or ever register.

It is only too clear that man is not at home in this universe, and yet he is not good enough to deserve a better.

The universe is asymmetric and I am persuaded that life, as it is known to us, is a direct result of the asymmetry of the universe or of its indirect consequences. The universe is asymmetric.

Nature recycles itself. History repeats itself. Religion has faith in itself. Technology creates itself. Humanity loves itself.