My Number Is 174517; We Have Been

A Scientist's Life, The Author Says, Is Indeed Conflictual, Formed By Battles, Defeats, And Victories: But The Adversary Is Always And Only The Unknown, The Problem To Be Solved, The Mystery To Be Clarified. It Is Never A Matter Of Civil War; Even Though Of Different Opinions, Or Of Different Political Leanings, Scientists Dispute Each Other, They Compete, But They Do Not Battle: They Are Bound Together By A Strong Alliance, By The Common Faith "in The Validity Of Maxwell's Or Boltzmann's Equations," And By The Common Acceptance Of Darwinism And The Molecular Structure Of Dna.

I'm A Libertine, But It's Not My Specialty.

We Who Survived The Camps Are Not True Witnesses. We Are Those Who, Through Prevarication, Skill Or Luck, Never Touched Bottom. Those Who Have, And Who Have Seen The Face Of The Gorgon, Did Not Return, Or Returned Wordless.

After The Planet Becomes Theirs, Many Millions Of Years Will Have To Pass Before A Beetle Particularly Loved By God, At The End Of Its Calculations Will Find Written On A Sheet Of Paper In Letters Of Fire That Energy Is Equal To The Mass Multiplied By The Square Of The Velocity Of Light. The New Kings Of The World Will Live Tranquilly For A Long Time, Confining Themselves To Devouring Each Other And Being Parasites Among Each Other On A Cottage Industry Scale.

This Is The Most Immediate Fruit Of Exile, Of Uprooting: The Prevalence Of The Unreal Over The Real. Everyone Dreamed Past And Future Dreams, Of Slavery And Redemption, Of Improbable Paradises, Of Equally Mythical And Improbable Enemies; Cosmic Enemies, Perverse And Subtle, Who Pervade Everything Like The Air.