They thought it was an enemy but it was only their own reflection.

I care about strangers when they're abstractions but feel almost nothing when they are literally in front of me. They seem like unnamed characters in a poorly written novel about myself, which was poorly written by me.

I prefer to believe the opposite - that there is always an indestructible beauty at the heart of darkness.

Ah,” said Arthur, “er …” He had an odd feeling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman’s husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again.

Written By Douglas Adams

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