No longer will you be a weird Robinson Crusoe, imprisoned on an island of night surrounded by oceans of death.

Because there was only one thing worse than dying. And that was knowing you were going to die. And where. And how. (“Death Ship”)

A man could get used to anything if he had to.

…They think of suicide as a quick route to oblivion, an escape. Far from it. It merely alters a person from one form to another. Nothing can destroy the spirit. Suicide only precipitates a darker continuation of the same conditions from which escape was sought. A condition under circumstances so much more painful.

It is my conviction that basic Reality is not all that perplexing. What seems difficult to assimilate are the manifold details of Reality, not its fundamental elements.

What condemnation could possibly be more harsh than one’s own, when self-pretense is no longer possible?

And, before science had caught up with the legend, the legend had swallowed science and everything.