Nothing, My Dear And Clever Colleague, Is

My Pessimism (which, By The Way, Is Far From Absolute) Originated With My Despair In The Lack Of Perfection To Be Found In Human Nature. I Was Attempting In My Successive Books To Show The Inevitable Handicap Of The Human Condition.

The Night Stared Me In The Face, Amorphous, Blind, Infinite, Without Frontiers. Not A Single Start Relieved The Darkness Behind The Glass.

Science Is Turning Into A Monastery For The Order Of Capitulant Friars. Logical Calculus Is Supposed To Supersede Man As Moralist. We Submit To The Blackmail Of The 'superior Knowledge' That Has The Temerity To Assert That Nuclear War Can Be, By Derivation, A Good Thing, Because This Follows From Simple Arithmetic.

Do Not Trust People. They Are Capable Of Greatness.

It Has No Meaning, What Do You Use To Write, The Only Thing That Is Important Is: What Do You Write. A Machine To Write A Book Instead Of A Writer Is Not Invented Yet, And Probably Will Never Be.