Given That External Reality Is A Fiction,

Au Revoir, Jewelled Alligators And White Hotels, Hallucinatory Forests, Farewell.

I Accepted That A New Kind Of Hate Had Emerged, Silent And Disciplined, A Racism Tempered By Loyalty Cards And Pin Numbers. Shopping Was Now The Model For All Human Behaviour, Drained Of Emotion And Anger.

A Ton Of Proust Isn’t Worth An Ounce Of Ray Bradbury.

The Twentieth Century Ended With Its Dreams In Ruins. The Notion Of The Community As A Voluntary Association Of Enlightened Citizens Has Died Forever. We Realize How Suffocatingly Humane We've Become, Dedicated To Moderation And The Middle Way. The Suburbanization Of The Soul Has Overrun Our Planet Like The Plague.

By The Eighteenth Book, One Has A Sense Of Having Bricked Oneself Into A Niche, A Roosting Place For Other People's Pigeons. I Wouldn't Recommend It.