Trurl says: “Master and Maestro!”, said Trurl hastily, wishing to divert the angry old robot’s attention away from himself. “Is then the problem of bestowing happiness insoluble?”

Master says: Insoluble? Why insoluble? You phrase the question incorrectly. For what, after all, is happiness? That’s as clear as a kilowatt.

Master says: Happiness is an extraction, or more precisely an extension of a metaspace in which projections of n-intentional determinants diverge as omega approaches alpha,

Master says: provided of course the asymptotes can be mapped onto a continuous, polyorthogonal aggregate of subsets called cerebrons—after me.

Master says: To an exam one may come unprepared”, continued the deceased in a suspiciously sugary voice. “But to fail to review even the most basic concepts before marching off to the professor’s grave

Master says: that is such insolence”, he roared so loud the microphone rattled, “that if I were still alive—it would finish me off for sure!

Master says: You have no notion of subsets or superseries, so I’ll put it in a way that even a washing machine could understand!

Master says: Happiness, happiness worth the effort, is not a thing in itself, a totality, but part of something that is not happiness, nor ever could be.

Master says: Happiness is not an independent function, but a second derivative

Master says: No, you’ll take a screwdriver and disassemble the machine in which you first imprisoned and subsequently slew your own person.

Master says: Anyway, why should I play spectral nursemaid to a pack of fools?

Master says: Are you aware, incidentally, that there is only one count of self-murder against you?