David Gerrold Gönderileri
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Many years ago I pondered the reason for my own existence. I had to have a meaning. I was sure I had to. Variants of me did go mad seeking that meaning—but only those of me who could accept the gift of life without questioning it too intensely would survive to find the answer.
Before, I was young, foolish. I was like a barbarian at the banquet. I gulped and guzzled; I ate without tasting. I rushed through each experience like a tourist trying to see twenty-one European cities in two weeks and enjoying none of them. Now, I’m a gourmet. I savor each day. I taste the robustness of life, but not so hurriedly as to lose its delicate overtones.
The only thing that keeps every man from realizing all of his dreams are all those other people with all their different dreams.
Some of our heroes serve us better dead than alive.
Somewhere there exist all the possible variations of all the possible people I could be. I could be any of them—but I cannot be all. I can only be one of the variations. I will be the variation of myself that pleases me the most.
Passion overwhelms despair and humanity goes on; sometimes seething, sometimes dirty, sometimes even unspeakably evil. But always—despite the setbacks—the direction is always upward. If I must taste the bitterness, it is worth it; because I have also shared the dreams.
Think of an artist drawing a picture. But he’s using indelible ink and he doesn’t have an eraser. If he wants to make a change, he has to paint over a line with white. The line hasn’t ceased to exist; it has just been painted over and a new line drawn on top.
On the surface, it doesn’t appear to make much difference. The finished picture will look the same whether the artist uses an eraser or a gallon of white paint, but it’s important to the artist. He’s aware of the process he used to obtain the final result and it affects his consciousness. He’s aware of all the lines and drawings beneath the final one, the layer upon layer of images, each one not quite the one—all those discarded pieces; they haven’t ceased to exist, they’ve just been painted out of view.
Subjectively, time travel is like that.
