Maybe This World Is Another Planet's Hell.

One Cubic Centimeter Cures Ten Gloomy Sentiments.

Liberty, As We All Know, Cannot Flourish In A Country That Is Permanently On A War Footing, Or Even A Near War Footing. Permanent Crisis Justifies Permanent Control Of Everybody And Everything By The Agencies Of Central Government.

Unlike The Masses, Intellectuals Have A Taste For Rationality And An Interest In Facts.

Reality, No Matter How Utopian, Seems To Be Something People Need To Frequently Take A Holiday From.

In Spite Of Language, In Spite Of Intelligence And Intuition And Sympathy, One Can Never Really Communicate Anything To Anybody. The Essential Substance Of Every Thought And Feeling Remains Incommunicable, Locked Up In The Impenetrable Strong-room Of The Individual Soul And Body. Our Life Is A Sentence Of Perpetual Solitary Confinement.