A Man Is Not Much

For Memory, We Use Our Imagination. We Take A Few Strands Of Real Time And Carry Them With Us, Then Like An Oyster We Create A Pearl Around Them.

Given The World That He Created, It Would Be An Impiety Against God To Believe In Him.

I Read Nietzsche When I Was A Teenager And Then I Went Back To Reading Him When I Was In My Thirties, And His Voice Spoke Directly To Me. Nietzsche Is Such A Superb Literary Artist.

I Have Never Really Got Used To Being On This Earth. Sometimes I Think Our Presence Here Is Due To A Cosmic Blunder, That We Were Meant For Another Planet Altogether, With Other Arrangements, And Other Laws, And Other, Grimmer Skies. I Try To Imagine It, Our True Place, Off On The Far Side Of The Galaxy, Whirling And Whirling. And The Ones Who Were Meant For Here, Are They Out There, Baffled And Homesick, Like Us? No, They Would Have Become Extinct Long Ago. How Could They Survive, These Gentle Earthlings, In A World That Was Made To Contain Us.

What I Was Afraid Of Was My Own Grief, The Weight Of It, The Ineluctable Corrosive Force Of It, And The Stark Awareness I Had Of Being, For The First Time In My Life, Entirely Alone, A Crusoe Shipwrecked And Stranded In The Limitless Wastes Of A Boundless And Indifferent Ocean.