Rupert Morrish

“I would love to believe that when I die I will live again, that some thinking, feeling, remembering part of me will continue. But as much as I want to believe that, and despite the ancient and worldwide cultural traditions that assert an afterlife, I know of nothing to suggest that it is more than wishful thinking. I want to grow really old with my wife, Annie, whom I dearly love. I want to see my younger children grow up and to play a role in their character and intellectual development. I want to meet still unconceived grandchildren. There are scientific problems whose outcomes I long to witness—such as the exploration of many of the worlds in our Solar System and the search for life elsewhere. I want to learn how major trends in human history, both hopeful and worrisome, work themselves out: the dangers and promise of our technology, say; the emancipation of women; the growing political, economic, and technological ascendancy of China; interstellar flight. If there were life after death, I might, no matter when I die, satisfy most of these deep curiosities and longings. But if death is nothing more than an endless dreamless sleep, this is a forlorn hope. Maybe this perspective has given me a little extra motivation to stay alive. The world is so exquisite, with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with pretty stories for which there's little good evidence. Far better, it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look Death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief but magnificent opportunity that life provides.”
― Carl Sagan, Billions & Billions: Thoughts on Life and Death at the Brink of the Millennium

“there are some objectively decent people who don’t love mushrooms, though I don’t claim to be able to reconcile those two facts.”
― Cory Doctorow, The Lost Cause

“I don’t know why America forgot to send rural Minnesota girls a memo back in the ’80s telling us to stop dividing our bangs into two equal parts, one a tube that curled upward and the other a claw that grasped down, but some of us still carried a grudge.”
― Jess Lourey, December Dread

“Its scheme was black and primrose; its walls were lined with rare editions, and its chairs and Chesterfield sofa suggested the embraces of the houris.”
― Dorothy L. Sayers, Whose Body?