The disembarkation was a fucking shambles and we only took Alexandria as quick as we did to get a fucking drink somewhere, because we were near dead … - Anthony Burgess

Evet evet evet, işte buydu. Gençlik bitmeliydi, ah evet. Ama gençlik, hayvanmış gibi olmaktır zaten sadece. Hayır, sadece hayvanmış gibi olmak değil de hani şu sokaklarda satıldığını dikizlediğimiz minik oyuncaklardan biri olmak gibidir, teneke ve içi zemberekli ve üstünde kurma dolu olan ve gırr gırr gırr diye kurunca gitmeye başlayan, yürüyen filan minik heriflerden biri olmak gibidir, ey kardeşlerim. Ama dosdoğru gider ve bir şeylere çarpar bam bam ve yaptıklarını, elinde olmadan yapar. Genç olmak, bu minik makinelerden biri olmak gibidir.
(syf. 167)

The story of English literature, viewed aesthetically, is one thing; the story of English writers is quite another. The price of contributing to the greatest literature the world has ever seen is often struggle and penury: art is still too often its own reward. It is salutary sometimes to think of the early deaths of Keats, Shelley, Byron, Chatterton, Dylan Thomas, of the Grub Street struggles of Dr. Johnson, the despair of Gissing and Francis Thompson. That so many writers have been prepared to accept a kind of martyrdom is the best tribute that flesh can pay to the living spirit of man as expressed in his literature. One cannot doubt that the martyrdom will continue to be gladly embraced. To some of us, the wresting of beauty out of language is the only thing in the world that matters.

What sort of world is it at all? Men on the moon and men spinning round the earth like it might be midges round a lamp, and there's not no attention paid to earthly law nor order no more.