I’m drowning in papers.
There’s simply too much fuss about myself.
Civilisation, the orderly world in which we live, is frail. We are skating on thin ice. There is a fear of a collective disaster. Terrorism, genocide, flu, tsunamis.
I don’t believe I have a mission. Sometimes I really have a spiritual need to say something more general about the world, and sometimes something personal.
It is not enough for me to ask question; I want to know how to answer the one question that seems to encompass everything I face: What am I here for?
Why do I write books? Why do I think? Why should I be passionate? Because things could be different, they could be made better.
It’s just not easy to explain to someone else what you don’t understand yourself.
We have tried you good people of the public and we have found you wanting.
Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.