The futility of self-improvement has been long acknowledged - at least, within my own particular branch of epistemology. Regrettably it has not spread much beyond that domain, or at least as far as can be proven. I do believe that a handful of copies of my works have been purchased but I suspect that my associates may be trying to assuage my feelings. I'm not sure why, for they should know that I would not be insulted at all if they just assumed them not to exist. I'm impartial on the matter for being unable to prove it either way, and I have better things to do than track sales numbers (or lack of them). I care more, truthfully, about the ideas contained in the work. I would be glad if I never saw a penny for their taking by society, for if they were taken up and practiced I'd never need any coin again. I would likewise be unhappy if the book sold but the thoughts stayed mine alone. Or at least, I would be to the best of my knowledge. I similarly cannot prove it but
I think that people do not appreciate being told... well, what I tell them in the book's introduction. I may clearly state that what they are reading is my attempt to murder their current self but I suppose that the future self that is inherited through the action of consuming those words has some manner of sympathy for its ancestor. The readers of my work seem to be so insulted by this intimation of mine, so outraged by its implications, so perturbed as to send me hate mail and even follow me to my home -

- well, I suppose including a cyanide capsule was alright, but the flashing LED arrow may have been a bit tacky, perhaps.