Every day is Christmas Day to a dog.
Not to write, for many of us, is to die.
I shall remain on Mars and read a book.
The terrible tyranny of the majority.
We are all . . . children of this universe. Not just Earth, or Mars, or this system, but the whole grand fireworks. And if we are interested in Mars at all, it is only because we wonder over our past and worry terribly about our possible future.
I am madness maddened when it comes to books, writers, and the great granary silos where their wits are stored.