The English Gentleman Is A

The Sole Perfection Which Modern Civilization Attains Is A Mechanical One; Machines Are Splendid And Flawless, But The Life Which Serves Them Or Is Served By Them, Is Neither Superb Nor Brilliant, Nor More Perfect Nor More Graceful; Nor Is The Work Of The Machines Perfect; Only They, The Machines, Are Like Gods.

We´re Two, Two For Everything, For Love, Life, For A Fight And Pain, For Hours Of Happiness. Two For Wins And Losses, For Life And For Death - Two!

You Still Stand Watch, O Human Star, Burning Without A Flicker, Perfect Flame, Bright And Resourceful Spirit. Each Of Your Rays A Great Idea - O Torch Which Passes From Hand To Hand, From Age To Age, World Without End.

I Think I Am Slowly Becoming An Anarchist, That This Is Only Another Label For My Privateness, And I Think That You Will Understand This In The Sense Of Being Against Collectivity.

My Dear Miss Glory, Robots Are Not People. They Are Mechanically More Perfect Than We Are, They Have An Astounding Intellectual Capacity, But They Have No Soul.