Dear Humans, Another orbit around this star of ours, and we are still here. On this little blue planet, amidst all our joys and sufferings, avoiding self-destruction. There will always be noise. Television and the internet screaming in your face, telling you how things were never this bad, that this is the end. But that is just humans being humans. For most of history, disease, famine, and war were not tragic exceptions. They were the human condition. Just rewind a hundred orbits. Authority-driven knowledge and child mortality were rampant. We had barely left the atmosphere. Most of us thought our galaxy was the universe. The internet and antibiotics were science fiction. A thousand orbits back meant ignorance, serfdom, and incomplete maps. A million orbits back, just stone and fire. I often burden you with the vastness of the universe, our insignificance, and our fragility. That is true. There are billions of galaxies out there, each with billions of stars. But the stars? They burn and flicker and die, envying us. Envying that we can feel. We are the spark that somehow rose out of that flicker. We are the wave that is adrift, the miracle of thermodynamics, the sculpture of time, and the custodians of meaning. For all we know, we are the only island of consciousness in a universe that is cold, lifeless, and barren. Before you ask: Yes, there is no "why." We are here and now, trapped in this amber of the moment. There seems to be no inherent purpose. So what? Should we wake up tomorrow, join hands, and face extinction together? I think we can all agree that is silly, selfish, and beneath us. We are the evolutionary lineage of explorers and inventors. Ancestors who survived the indifference of nature and still came out on top. We owe it to them. We owe it to their art, their courage, and their might. The stars are waiting. We have to spread the symphonies of Bach and Beethoven, the poems of Rumi and Eliot, the dream of Hypatia, the stillness of Buddha, the genius of Einstein, and a thousand more. Like everything human, it won’t be easy. We are dangerous. If you don't believe me, ask the Neanderthals. Our knowledge is intoxicating. We have become far mightier than the swords of our ancestors. We are capable of turning all our hopes and dreams into ashes before sunset. But that is our Promethean destiny. We must rise above our differences, kindle knowledge and compassion, and fight ignorance and injustice. And hopefully, not so many orbits from now, we will set sail to the stars. Happy New Year.

Carl Sagan's perspective of existence.

I would love to believe that when I die I will live again, that some thinking, feeling, remembering part of me will continue. But as much as I want to believe that, and despite the ancient and worldwide cultural traditions that assert an afterlife, I know of nothing to suggest that it is more than wishful thinking. I want to grow really old with my wife, Annie, whom I dearly love. I want to see my younger children grow up and to play a role in their character and intellectual development. I want to meet still unconceived grandchildren. There are scientific problems whose outcomes I long to witness—such as the exploration of many of the worlds in our Solar System and the search for life elsewhere. I want to learn how major trends in human history, both hopeful and worrisome, work themselves out: the dangers and promise of our technology, say; the emancipation of women; the growing political, economic, and technological ascendancy of China; interstellar flight. If there were life after death, I might, no matter when I die, satisfy most of these deep curiosities and longings. But if death is nothing more than an endless dreamless sleep, this is a forlorn hope. Maybe this perspective has given me a little extra motivation to stay alive. The world is so exquisite, with so much love and moral depth, that there is no reason to deceive ourselves with pretty stories for which there's little good evidence. Far better, it seems to me, in our vulnerability, is to look Death in the eye and to be grateful every day for the brief but magnificent opportunity that life provides. - Carl Sagan, Billions & Billions: Thoughts on Life and Death at the Brink of the Millennium

"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us." The Pale Blue Dot by Carl Sagan

Why Christopher Hitchens spent his life refuting Gods and Religions

When my husband died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me-it still sometimes happens-and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don't ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous, not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance. . . . That pure chance could be so generous and so kind. . . . That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time. . . . That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it’s much more meaningful. . . . The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful. - Ann Druyan