We all of us waited for him to die. The family sent him a check every month, and hoped he'd get on with it quietly, without too much vulgar fuss.

Here we are, we're alone in the universe, there's no God, it just seems that it all began by something as simple as sunlight striking on a piece of rock. And here we are. We've only got ourselves. Somehow, we've just got to make a go of it. We've only ourselves.

Heroes, whatever high ideas we may have of them, are mortal and not divine. We are all as God made us and many of us much worse.

That voice that cries out doesn't have to be a weakling's does it?

They spend their time looking forward to the past.

George Bernard Shaw writes like a Pakistani who has learned English when he was twelve years old in order to become an accountant.

I must say it's pretty dreary living in the American Age - unless you're an American of course. Perhaps all our children will be Americans.