Two decades ago, I was quite fond of books with a Darwinian twist. At some point I even likened the progress of my Residua to an evolutionary process (“A Darwinian Book,” November 19, 2006). I was enthralled by the evolutionary stages of renown—overproduction, variation, competition, and selection. They smacked of my ventures into all sorts of topics that captured my interest along the way. As years kept marching on, though, I got increasingly doubtful about evolution (see, e.g., “Fuck Evolution,” January 29, 2018; and “Fuck Evolution, Again,” April 29, 2019). Slowly but surely, I also started worrying about the progress of my magnum opus. If it is indeed Darwinian, I am horrified by its progress, if that term makes any sense at all. Actually, I am even more horrified by its ultimate destination. It is enough to cast a look at the progress of my own species at this stage of its evolution. It is supposed to be the pinnacle of life on earth, and yet it is about to devastate its natural habitat entire, including itself. To wit, I sincerely hope that my book is not Darwinian. Perish the thought. The older I get, the more I am convinced that evolution is no less than perilous. Whence my fascination with posthistory (see, e.g., “Prehistory, Posthistory,” February 14, 2012; and “The Bright Future,” July 12, 2023). As far as my book is concerned, all I wish is its eventual completion. The end. In just a few years, it will be rounded off with no more than a few addenda pending before my own happy end. A Darwinian book, my ass. Instead, a life book. Hooray!