Well, it's practically over, thank God - I'm 83, there won't be that much more of it to put up with I don't think!

The arts are not a way to make a living.

We don't make bicycles anymore. It's all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways for everyone to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if somebody does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan.

And what do the birds say? All there is to say about a massacre, things like "Poo-tee-weet?

The book was Maniacs in the Fourth Dimension, by Kilgore Trout. It was about people whose mental diseases couldn't be treated because the causes of the diseases were all in the fourth dimension, and three-dimensional Earthling doctors couldn't see those causes at all, or even imagine them.

There was no immunity to cuckoo ideas on Earth.

I have no culture, no humane harmony in my brains. I can't live without a culture anymore.