Old Age Makes Caricatures Of Us All.

Of The Four Billion Life Forms Which Have Existed On This Planet, Three Billion, Nine Hundred And Sixty Million Are Now Extinct. We Don't Know Why. Some By Wanton Extinction, Some Through Natural Catastrophe, Some Destroyed By Meteorites And Asteroids. In The Light Of These Mass Extinctions It Really Does Seem Unreasonable To Suppose That Homo Sapiens Should Be Exempt. Our Species Will Have Been One Of The Shortest-lived Of All, A Mere Blink, You May Say, In The Eye Of Time.

I Don't See Why Escapist Literature Shouldn't Also Be A Work Of Art.

We Can Forgive Anything As Long As It Isn't Done To Us.

Unnatural Death Always Provoked A Peculiar Unease, An Uncomfortable Realization That There Were Still Some Things That Might Not Be Susceptible To Bureaucratic Control.

I Am Fifty Years Old And I Have Never Known What It Is To Love. I Can Write Those Words, Know Them To Be True, But Feel Only The Regret That A Tone-deaf Man Must Feel Because He Can't Appreicate Music, A Regret Less Keen Because It Is For Something Never Known, Not For Something Lost.