Simplistic popularization of their ideas has thrust our world into a mental straitjacket from which we can only escape by the most anarchic violence.
Sleep is when all the unsorted stuff comes flying out as from a dustbin upset in a high wind.
The journey of life is like a man riding a bicycle. We know he got on the bicycle and started to move. We know that at some point he will stop and get off. We know that if he stops moving and does not get off he will fall off. Novelists do not write as birds sing, by the push of nature.