History knows no scruples and no hesitation. Inert and unerring, she flows towards her goal. At every bend in her course she leaves the mud which she carries and the corpses of the drowned.

Death tripped down the corridor, changing step, struck out here and there, danced pirouettes; often I felt his breath on my face when he was miles away; often I fell asleep and dreamed while he stood leaning over my bed.

I am not sure whether ethical absolutes exist. But I am sure that we have to act as if they existed or civilization perishes.

There is only one prospect worse than being chained to an intolerable existence: The nightmare of a botched attempt to end it.

God seems to have left the receiver off the hook and time is running out.

Space-ships and time machines are no escape from the human condition.

The creative act does not create something out of nothing; it uncovers, selects, reshuffles, combines, synthesizes already existing facts, ideas, faculties, and skills.