Facts are ventriloquist’s dummies. Sitting on a wise man’s knee they may be made to utter words of wisdom; elsewhere, they say nothing, or talk nonsense, or indulge in sheer diabolism.

Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be
done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of
hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the
precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible.

"I ate civilization. It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then," he added in a lower tone, "I ate my own wickedness."