He Said That In A Way Being

Complaints About Reality Are Immature.

... Too Much Brooding, Not Enough Doing.

Literature Was Intended To Be Dangerous. Art Was Meant To Be Dangerous. Ideas Were Nothing If They Were Not Dangerous.

In The Dark That Followed - Lucy Said; "where I Was Born, The Trees Were Always In The Sun. And I Left That Place Because It Was Intolerant Of Rain. Now, We Are Here In A Place Where There Are No Trees And There Is Only Rain. And I Intend To Leave This Place - Because It Is Intolerant Of Light. Somewhere - There Must Be Somewhere Where Darkness And Light Are Reconciled. So I Am Starting A Rumour, Here And Now, Of Yet Another World. I Don't Know When It Will Present Itself - I Don't Know Where It Will Be. But - As With All Those Other Worlds Now Past When It Is Ready, I Intend To Go There.

I Write Against Violence. I Write Against Fascism. I Write Against One Person Dominating Another.