Burn With That Consuming Fire Of Objectivity

So One Must Be Resigned To Being A Clock That Measures The Passage Of Time, Now Out Of Order, Now Repaired, And Whose Mechanism Generates Despair And Love As Soon As Its Maker Sets It Going? Are We To Grow Used To The Idea That Every Man Relives Ancient Torments, Which Are All The More Profound Because They Grow Comic With Repetition? That Human Existence Should Repeat Itself, Well And Good, But That It Should Repeat Itself Like A Hackneyed Tune, Or A Record A Drunkard Keeps Playing As He Feeds Coins Into The Jukebox.

We Don't Want To Conquer The Cosmos, We Simply Want To Extend The Boundaries Of Earth To The Frontiers Of The Cosmos.

We Are Like Snails, Each Stuck To His Own Leaf.

The Demand For Absolute Purity Of Genres Is Becoming Nowadays An Anachronism In Literature.

What Gave You This Idea Of An Imperfect God?' 'i Don't Know. It Seems Quite Feasible To Me. That Is The Only God I Could Imagine Believing In, A God Whose Passion Is Not A Redemption, Who Saves Nothing, Fulfills No Purpose--a God Who Simply Is.