He set no great value on money, or, perhaps, to speak properly, he set on it no more than its true value. - Stephen Baxter

If you were anywhere near the center of human affairs, even to the extent that she was, your predominant emotion had to be disappointment at the way in which an age when opportunities for humanity had never been greater, old flaws—territorialism, combativeness, reluctance to transcend cultural barriers, a sheer inability simply to see things from the other guy’s point of view—looked set to bring the sky crashing down on all their heads.

Human consciousness was an artificial thing. Once humans had believed that gods animated their souls, fighting their battles in the guise of humans. Later they had evolved the idea of the self-aware, self-directed consciousness. Now Michael saw that it had all been no more than an idea, a model, an illusion behind which to hide.
He, the last man, need no longer cling to such outmoded comforts.
There was no cognition, he realized. There was only perception.

The universe aged: indifferent, harsh, hostile and ultimately lethal.