Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone elses opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.

"None of it means a thing," he said, tossing back another glass of scotch, "it's empty and void and meaningless, like passing rains, or the crops that rise and fall and spring up again."

"But they don't know that," she said, quietly, "they sing our names and make likenesses and fill their poor heads up with such nonsense..."

"Then I'll give them fire and you'll see, it'll burn a hole right through their chests and their heads and the very world they stand on," rejoined Prometheus, pushing back his mop of hair and sitting fully upright, "and they will doubt everything."