He almost danced to the fridge, found the three least hairy things in it, put them on a plate and watched them intently for two minutes. Since they made no attempt to move within that time he called them breakfast and ate them. Between them they killed a virulent space disease he'd picked up without knowing it in the Flargathon Gas Swamps a few days earlier, which otherwise would have killed off half the population of the Western Hemisphere, blinded the other half, and driven everyone else psychotic and sterile, so the Earth was lucky there.

I don't say that I don't believe in God because that implies that there is a God for me not to believe in.

Just believe everything I tell you, and it will all be very, very simple.' Ah, well, I'm not sure I believe that.

I find that writing is a constant battle with exactly the same problems you've always had.

I was created to fulfill a function and I failed in it. I negated my own existence.

Very deep. You should send that in to the Reader's Digest. They've got a page for people like you.

I'm 48, which is a bit of a shock to me. Why only last year I thought I was a precocious young thing!