Each Person Who Gets Stuck

Thoughts Are No More Than Electrical Surges In The Brain. Sexual Arousal Is No More Than A Flow Of Chemicals To Certain Nerve Endings. Sadness Is No More Than A Bit Of Acid Transfixed In The Cerebellum. In Short, The Body Is A Machine, Subject To The Same Laws Of Electricity And Mechanics As An Electron Or Clock.

I Wouldn't Overall Say That "the Diagnosis" Is A Funny Book. I Would Say That It Has Comic Moments. It's A Modern Tragedy.

Franz Kafka Is An Idea Person. His Books Begin And End In Ideas. Ideas Have Always Been Important To Me In My Writing. To The Point That I Have To Be Careful That They Don't Take Over.

Science Is An Intellectual Journey, And To Me, It's Not The Destination, It's The Journeyto Get There. It's A Way Of Thinking And It's An Intellectual Curiosity, A Desire To Know How The World Works, And To Know What The Fundamental Principles Of The World Are, And To Know Our Place In It. I Think Once We Stop Asking Questions Like "what Is The Age Of The Universe," Or "how Are The Instructions Of Dna Carried Out On A Microscopic Level," Once We Stop Asking Questions Like That, We're Dead.

One Cannot Walk Down An Avenue, Converse With A Friend, Enter A Building, Browse Beneath The Sandstone Arches Of An Old Arcade Without Meeting An Instrument Of Time. Time Is Visible In All Places. Clock Towers, Wristwatches, Church Bells Divide Years Into Months, Months Into Days, Days Into Hours, Hours Into Seconds, Each Increment Of Time Marching After The Other In Perfect Succession. And Beyond Any Particular Clock, A Vast Scaffold Of Time, Stretching Across The Universe, Lays Down The Law Of Time Equally For All.