Happiness is having a large, loving, caring, close-knit family in another city.

People like Eunice just never had quite figured out how to get along in the world. They might be perfectly intelligent, but they were subject to speckles and flushes; their purses resembled wastepaper baskets; they stepped on their own skirts.

Vyacheslav exited through New Caird’s airlock, clambered down a stack of robots to the surface, and then made his way toward the site.

Why? Why is there a crisis in literature? Because of lies and rottenness. Simplicity and sincerity have been replaced by obsfucation and pretense. Men, of course. They love to create mystery where none exists. It's the way they think.

Written By Alexander McCall Smith

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