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"Your affairs," I told him, but speaking to myself, "are your affairs—and not mine". - (Priest-Kings of Gor, Chapter 35, Sentence #125)

"You spoke once of machines," I said. "Howsoever I spoke," said Misk, "words cannot diminish men or Priest-Kings—for who cares what we are—if we can act, decide, sense beauty, seek right, and have hopes for our people?" I swallowed hard, for I knew I had hopes for my race, and I sensed how Misk must have them for his, only his race was dying, and would sooner or later, one by one, meet with an accident or succumb to the Pleasures of the Golden Beetle. And my race—it would live on Gor—at least for the time, because of what Misk and Priest-Kings had done to preserve their world for them. "Your affairs," I told him, but speaking to myself, "are your affairs—and not mine". "Of course," agreed Misk. If I should attempt to help Misk, what would this mean, ultimately? Would it not be to surrender my race to the mercies of the people of Sarm and the Priest-Kings who had served him, or would it be ultimately to protect my race until it had learned to live with itself, until it had reached the maturity of humanity, until it, together with the people who called themselves Priest-Kings, could address itself to a common world, and to the galaxy beyond? "Your world is dying," I said to Misk. "The universe itself will die," said Misk. - (Priest-Kings of Gor)