The fact that God gave the whole human race the earth to use and enjoy cannot indeed in any manner serve as an objection against private possessions.
Sex and hypocrisy. They go together like coffee and cream.
Short fiction seems more targeted - hand grenades of ideas, if you will. When they work, they hit, they explode, and you never forget them. Long fiction feels more like atmosphere: it's a lot smokier and less defined.
The problem with surviving was that you ended up with the ghosts of everyone you’d ever left behind riding on your shoulders.
We are nature. Our every tinkering is nature, our every biological striving. We are what we are, and the world is ours. We are its gods. Your only difficulty is your unwillingness to unleash your potential fully upon it.
The surfeit of bad trends pushes me to set my stories in worlds which are often diminished versions of our own present.
Knowledge is simply a terrible ocean we must cross, and hope that wisdom lies on the other side.
The man who wants his wedding garments to suit him must allow plenty of time for the measure.
If we can't meet with our friends, I don't know how we're going to lead the world in terms of dealing with critical issues like terrorism.
He who is allowed to do as he likes will soon run his head into a brick wall out of sheer frustration.
. . . because I'm sure that as soon as things really get back to "normal," once our kids or grandkids grow up in a peaceful and comfortable world, they'll probably go right back to being as selfish and narrow-minded and generally shitty to one another as we were.