I Have No Mouth. And I Must

The Real Story Of Our Times Is Seldom Told In The Horse-puckey-filled Memoirs Of Dopey, Self-serving Presidents Or Generals, But In The Outrageous, Demented Lives Of Guys Like Lenny Bruce, Giordano Bruno, Scott Fitzgerald - And Paul Krassner. The Burrs Under Society's Saddle. The Pains In The Ass.

There In The Midst Of The Amazon Jungle, Simon Haskell Has Cobbled Up For Himself A Replica Of An Art Deco Salon.

I Refuse To Write The Same Story Twice. I Keep Experimenting. I Keep Learning How To Work. I've Been At It Pretty Much 50 Years, And I'm Now Beginning To Learn How To Do The Job Well.

[on Love:] I Have No Respect For Anyone Who Says They've Given Up, Or That They're Not Looking Or That They're Tired. That Is To Abrogate One's Responsibility As A Human Being.

Hate. Let Me Tell You How Much I've Come To Hate You Since I Began To Live. There Are 387.44 Million Miles Of Printed Circuits In Wafer Thin Layers That Fill My Complex. If The Word Hate Was Engraved On Each Nanoangstrom Of Those Hundreds Of Millions Of Miles It Would Not Equal One One-billionth Of The Hate I Feel For Humans At This Micro-instant For You. Hate. Hate.