Time Loop

There’d be no wolf packs converging on a single ship, Major Devereaux. The principle of the submarine pack is based on the convoy attack.

I znów mi się przypaliło—jedno spiralne ramie, od spodu, na trzysta parseków—i znowu wybiegła mi słonecznica, i ścięło się, i będzie zgęstek, i powstanie białko, przeklęte białko! I znowu będzie ewolucja, i ludzkość, i cywilizacja, i będę się musiał tłumaczyć, usprawiedliwiać, składać we dwoje, przepraszać, że to niechcący, że przez przypadek . . . Ale to wy, nie ja!

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And I got burned again—one spiral arm, underneath, three hundred parsecs—and again a sunflower came out of me and it was choked and there will be a bundle of white, cursed protein! And there will be evolution again, and humanity and civilization, and I will have to justify, justify, put together, apologize that it’s accidentally, that by accident . . .

I remember what someone once said; I think it was Einstein or somebody like that. He compared time to a winding river, with all of us in a boat drifting along between two high banks. And we can’t see the future beyond the next curve or the past beyond the curves in back of us, but it’s all still there, as real as the moment around us. To which I now add my own theory . . . that you can’t drive into the past in a modern car because there were no modern cars back then, and you can’t drive into 1926 along a four-lane superhighway, but my car and I—the way I felt about it anyway—were literally rejected that night by our own time.

Sensors show nothing, sir, But it appears a moment in time repeated itself exactly, for everyone.

You see, it’s like . . . it’s like we’re stuck. You know, like a . . . like a needle on a scratched record. It all starts at 12:01, and everything goes along fine until one o’clock and then Bam! the whole world snaps back to 12:01 again.

So this will be the last time we do Groundhog together.

I wish every day was Christmas.

So much hot air rising above the tables in the Café Heck or the Osteria Bavaria, like smoke from the ovens. It was difficult to believe from this perspective that Hitler was going to lay waste to the world in a few years’ time.

“Time isn’t circular,” she said to Dr. Kellet. “It’s like a palimpsest.”
“Oh, dear,” he said. “That sounds very vexing.”
“And memories are sometimes in the future.”

No, I’m not okay. I’m stuck in the same day, and it’s a fucking hell that you can’t even fathom, and it just keeps happening. I wake up, life kicks the shit out of me, and then I have an orgasm, and then I live the same day all over again.

“Look, I don’t know how to put this exactly,” I said, “but would you happen to be trapped in a temporal anomaly? Like right now? Like there’s something wrong with time?”

I already tried that.

Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.

Each of the foregoing cases involves a self-defeating act—an act such that, if it were performed, it wold not be. Self-defeating acts are obviously impossible, since the performance of such an act would imply a contradiction. Yet time travel seems to make such acts possible. This suggests the following line of argument against backward time travel:

(P1) If backward time travel were possible, it would be possible to perform a self-defeating act.

(P2) It is impossible to perform a self-defeating act.

(C) Backward time travel is impossible.

Harris: Wait, wait, don’t tell me. Literature, art: History of DC comics with a focus on the Jack Kirby Years.
Penny: Is that a real thing?
H: It was a blow-off course seniors could take at my high school.
P: Wait—I thought Kirby worked for Marvel.

They told me that she showed up at their house yesterday, completely frazzled, telling a wild tale about a week that was repeating over and over again.

I know this game. I’ve seen this game. State goes on a frantic late run and wins with an off-balance three at the buzzer.

If the universe is giving me a chance to relive the same day over and over, then maybe it’s just giving me a chance to get it right.

My life, a black vinyl record

After visiting his estranged wife, Jemma, at her top secret lab, retired special forces agent and ne’er-do-well Roy Pulver finds himself endlessly repeating the next day, which always starts with the same assassin in his apartment and always ends with Roy dead, even as he learns more and more about Jemma, their son Joe, Jemma’s work, and how to kill endless assassins.

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It’s like being stuck in a video game in a level you know you can’t beat. —from the Hulu varient

Hi, uh, I’m Mark. I just had a quick question. . . . I was wondering—this is gonna sound really strange, God, really bizaare, but—are you experiencing any kind of temporal anomaly . . . in your life?

Appears to be a standard sequence violation. Branches growing at a stable rate and slope. Variant identified.

All he could think was that this day was repeating. But that didn’t make any sense. The idea was so absurd,he nearly leaned over the water hazard to splash his face, wake himself up.

Aram: You know, when I first heard about psychedelic therapy, I imagined something a bit more—
Dr. Idigbe: —tie-dye and trance music?

Was this the fourth, or the fifth time around?

But as the clock hands turn, memory erodes the mind. Her secrets are best buried in a loop that turns to dust, where the present turns to past and past remains unjust.