Human beings are in a game of chess with their own evolution.
When you start living for the in-flow of information—for digital content and contact—what do you stop living for?
People with extraordinarily high, one in a billion IQs tend to die early and not have children. I wonder if this is nature's eery way of saying a population of geniuses would be too unstable and dangerous to persist.
Nature tends to let small things survive while big things die out. Giganticism is always punished by nature.
Death is a return back to eternity; the more I think about it, only consciousness can be finite because only consciousness can experience time—lose consciousness and there is no time. Death, therefore, is a form of time travel: one returns to the pool of unconscious, non-conscious, non-existent from which some other consciousness may arise.
In a way, an infinitely expanding series of infinite universes might just be a way of producing a few consciousnesses.1
Our lives are a fertilizer for the future, just as the dead are fertilizer for ours.
I love—and this becomes rarer, of course, logically as one gets older—discovering a new literary genius. Each encounter with a great mind means discovering a new interpretation of life. New possibilities. New fates. New melody and richer harmonies.
Perhaps the greatest erotic mistake is preferring to be needed rather than wanted.