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How estranged from nature it was! Was nature so fearful that it must be denied, and betrayed? In whose interest was this treason? Was the biography of a world so terrible that gates must be barred against it? Were there not green fields, bracing winds, and a warm sun outside the gates? You can burn books; you cannot burn truth. - (Smugglers of Gor, Chapter 11, Sentence #101)

I thought of my former world. How artificial, how contrived, and false now seemed that world. How hollow its lies and pretenses. How estranged from nature it was! Was nature so fearful that it must be denied, and betrayed? In whose interest was this treason? Was the biography of a world so terrible that gates must be barred against it? Were there not green fields, bracing winds, and a warm sun outside the gates? You can burn books; you cannot burn truth. Who is accountable for the tragic routes leading to misery and want, to unhappiness and deprivation? Whence the monstrous distortions which would turn an animal against itself, and teach it to suspect, repudiate, and lacerate its own being? Who spoke to their own advantage, and proclaimed as truths self-serving inventions, concealing imperatives and demands in the cloak of statements? Who was it who, so ill-constituted and envious, jealous of health and joy, so exploited the credulity of the innocent, honest, and trusting? Will most humans not believe whatever they are told, any of a thousand inconsistent, competitive fabrics, each proclaimed as the one and only truth? I was grateful for the men, who had weapons. The forest was dark, lonely, and beautiful. It was particularly frightening at night. - (Smugglers of Gor)