FUTU.RE

Who came up with the idea that telling the truth is easy? That's already a lie.

Hate is a fine antidote for fear.

You know,” says Mr. Schreier, handing me the glass. “Eternal life and immortality are different things, aren’t they? Eternal life here…” – he touches his chest – “… and immortality here…” – he touches his finger to his temple. “Eternal life,” he chuckles, “is included in the basic social benefits package. But immortality is only accessible to the chosen few. And I think… I think you could attain it.” “Attain it? But aren’t I already one of the Immortals?” I joke. “The difference is the same as between a man and an animal.” He suddenly shows me his empty face again. “Obvious to the man and not obvious to the animal.” “You mean I still need to evolve.

The planet of people lives in three shifts: we’d be too crowded if we all went to sleep in the evening and woke up in the morning at the same time. So a third of us live in the morning, a third of us live in the evening and a third of us live at night. Europe never closes all its eyes.

In Russia they have a strange disease. It makes membrane grow across the sick person's throat, and they start to choke. there's less and less air until they eventually die. They treat it with a strange gizmo, A little silver tube. the membrane can't tolerate silver. The healer inserts the little silver tube in the patient's throat and he breaths through it until it gets over the illness. You're my little silver tube. With you, I have started breathing.

Our bodies are eternal, friction doesn’t wear them out, and we don’t need to make careful decisions about the people on whom we ought to spend our limited resources of youth and beauty. It’s the natural order of things. Ordinary people are created to enjoy pleasure. To take pleasure in the world, food, each other – and for what else? To be happy. And people like me are created to protect their happiness.

Está claro que no me fío de ninguno de los dos. Espero traición. Sin embargo cuento con ellos. Puede ser que esta última noche me dé miedo quedarme completamente solo y cualquier Judas me sirve de amigo.

Kiedy bóg rozmawia serdecznie z rzeźnikiem, dla tego ostatniego prędzej oznacza to nadciągającą egzekucję niż zaproszenie do grona apostołów.

Jeśli człowiek nie ma skłonności do utrzymywania porządku, to nawet w trumnie narobi bajzlu.

Mówię to jemu i mówię tobie: śmierć jest nam potrzebna! Nie powinniśmy żyć wiecznie! Nie takimi nas stworzono! Jesteśmy zbyt głupi na wieczność. Zbyt egoistyczni. Zbyt zadufani w sobie. Nie jesteśmy gotowi na życie bez końca. Potrzebujemy śmierci, Jacob. Bez śmierci nie potrafimy żyć.

Rywalizacja z Bogiem straciła już sens, bo dawno się z nim zrównaliśmy. Kiedyś wieczny był tylko on, teraz - każdy. Zawędrowaliśmy nawet do nieba, ponieważ bogiem jest teraz każdy z nas, ponieważ teraz słusznie się nam ono należy. Boga nie trzeba było nawet obalać - uciekł sam, w kobiecym przebraniu i zgoliwszy brodę, a teraz błąka się gdzieś pośród nas, mieszkając w kubiku dwa na dwa na dwa i łykając na śniadanie antydepresanty.

Ludzie zrezygnowali z nieba - ale nie na długo. Bóg nie zdążył nawet mrugnąć, nim najpierw się do niego wprowadzili, a potem go wyeksmitowali.

Father André turns cherry-red, I’ve socked him below the belt, but he handles it and holds up, speaking in a quiet, confident voice. “I didn’t choose this. He created me this way. He made me as a homosexual.” “What for? Was he feeling bored?” “So that I would come to Him. So that I would serve Him.” “Why, you don’t even have any right to serve! You’re a sinner! Your god created you a sinner! What for?” “So that I would always be guilty. Always guilty, no matter what I did.” “Wonderful!

And instantly the pale Apollo faces fall away from the human ones. For a brief moment I see before me not an ancient Attic army, not a reincarnated phalanx from the time of Alexander the Great, but a red-faced, agitated crowd – the same as the one that is rampaging down below us. And then, replacing those abstract, beautiful, marble masks, they all tug on alien, black ones – with mirror windows instead of eyes and filter canisters instead of mouths.

Christ’s painted blood seeps out of the wounds for which he himself is to blame, which he didn’t try to avoid, the great self-harmer. He himself inflicted them with others’ hands, to drive us all into debt. He paid in advance for our sins, the ones we hadn’t committed. He forced a thousand generations of people to be born guilty and pay him back with interest all their lives for this enforced loan. Thank you.

I too should have been born a carefree idler in this garden of paradise and taken the bright sunshine for granted, I should never have seen walls or been afraid of them, but lived at liberty, breathing deeply and freely! But instead… I made just one solitary mistake – I came out of the wrong mother: and now I’ve got to pay for that for the rest of my endless life.

In order to force it down, I cut myself a piece of meat. It’s already cold. It’s too tough for my taste, on the dry side. The beef that I eat usually melts in my mouth. But this roast has to be chewed, as if it actually used to be an animal’s muscles. Damn, what if it really is genuine?

So it turns out that we emerge into an antiquated FUTURE from a spaceship that never took off for the distant stars. And it was right not to, by the way. We’ve got no fucking business out there. But what we see in front of us is the present.