One is tempted to define man as a rational animal who always loses his temper when he is called upon to act in accordance with the dictates of reason.
Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it.
Not one man in five cycles, who is wise, will expect appreciative recognition from his fellows, or any one of them.
I hold that a writer who does not passionately believe in the perfectibility of man has no dedication nor any membership in literature.
After the bare requisites to living and reproducing, man wants most to leave some record of himself, a proof, perhaps, that he has really existed. He leaves his proof on wood, on stone or on the lives of other people. This deep desire exists in everyone, from the boy who writes dirty words in a public toilet to the Buddha who etches his image in the race mind. Life is so unreal. I think that we seriously doubt that we exist and go about trying to prove that we do.