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product. Finished products are for decadent minds.
“My novels are going to be interesting and are going to sell and be famous. What’s the use of writing books unless you sell them and become well-known? I don’t want just some old professors to know me. It’s got to be everybody.”
Sounds like how we are all at 14.
Even lacking telepathy or any of the crudely definite methods of mind touching mind, there is a sufficient clash in atmosphere, in intangible mood, to suffice for despair.
What a description.
Arcadia Darell, dressed in borrowed clothes, standing on a borrowed planet in a borrowed situation of what seemed even to be a borrowed life, wanted earnestly the safety of the womb. She didn’t know that was what she wanted. She only knew that the very openness of the open world was a great danger. She wanted a closed spot somewhere—somewhere far—somewhere in an unexplored nook of the universe—where no one would ever look.
He smiled bitterly. Always the same. Always that peering and peering through the opaque granite which, to the enemy, was so transparent.
Turbor’s lips curled a bit. “You’re counting on the Second Foundation, then?” The answer came with honest surprise. “Well, doesn’t everyone?”
Well that’s…ominous.
It’s always easy to explain the unknown by postulating a superhuman and arbitrary will.
