The way my writing has been turning of late, very soon I will not be able to give it to anyone I know, either friend or foe, without considerable editing. They will all have to wait for the ultimate publication of my Residua (ha!). Dostoevsky comes to mind: another fanatic of truth, another insect, is in the making. Together with Alyosha Karamazov, who averted his creator’s verdict only by accident, I am teetering at the edge of the old precipice (ha!). Suspended between reading and writing, between dreams and memories, I am bound to lose the last contact with the present. The edge itself is in question now. But the present be damned, when such a glorious and abundant future is assuredly ahead of me (ha!). Scheming alone in my room, my domesticated asteroid, starbound in my sterility, I relish every hideous word I utter. Insects like me (and you, dear reader) shall inherit this planet (ha!).

Addendum I (November 21, 2013)

Rereading this piece a century later, as it were, I am struck by the difference between my worlds now and then. Then I was producing yearbooks that went to a few friends and acquaintances. The yearbooks were typewritten, xeroxed, and bound. They were physical. Now I am posting my writings on the World Wide Web. Friends and acquaintances are farthest from my mind at this stage. My writings are intangible and perhaps even unreal. But the fanatic of truth is shining through ever brighter. And so is Alyosha Karamazov. In my new world, there is no need to worry about the ultimate publication of my Residua. Indeed, insects like me (and you, dear reader) shall inherit this planet (ha!).

Addendum II (February 24, 2024)

Coming across this piece of writing and the first addendum extending it, I cannot but extend it one more time. I am a fanatic of truth, no doubt. And my Residua is a no-bullshit book for true (“The Highest Praise I Can Muster,” February 14, 2021). As time goes by, though, Dostoevsky and Alyosha Karamazov are ebbing from my mind. By and by, I am at the very center of my own world. The fanatic of truth, as it were. And I relish every occasion when I have an opportunity to extend pieces of writing like this one. In the process, I can feel my breath so many years ago. In this particular case, no less than thirty-eight years separate the two of us. Back then, I was still at MIT. Research and teaching were uppermost on my mind. And I was squarely between my two American wives, as well as three children they had regaled me with. Indeed, a glorious and abundant future was undoubtedly ahead of me. But all of that is behind me by now. Right now, both my life and my writing project are ever closer to completion. To my joy, my magnum opus makes me whole for I have remained true to myself over nearly fifty years (“No Bullshit from Cradle to Grave,” August 19, 2021). As for the dear reader who mattered to me in times past, I could not care less any longer. If the truth does not suit this creature of my own invention, that is none of my business (ha!).