[i]nside Every Computer, There Is

Nothing Is Wholly Obvious Without Becoming Enigmatic. Reality Itself Is Too Obvious To Be True .

The Price We Pay For The Complexity Of Life Is Too High.

Genius Is Childhood Recaptured.

We Are Becoming Like Cats, Slyly Parasitic, Enjoying An Indifferent Domesticity. Nice And Snug In The Social, Our Historic Passions Have Withdrawn Into The Glow Of An Artificial Coziness, And Our Half-closed Eyes Now Seek Little Other Than The Peaceful Parade Of Television Pictures.

It Is The Corpse Of The Bourgeoisie That Separates Us. With Us, It Is That Class That Is The Carrier Of The Chromosome Of Banality.