Its at night, when perhaps we should be dreaming, that the mind is most clear, that we are most able to hold all our life in the palm of our skull. I dont know if anyone has ever pointed out that great attraction of insomnia before, but it is so; the night seems to release a little more of our vast backward inheritance of instincts and feelings; as with the dawn, a little honey is allowed to ooze between the lips of the sandwich, a little of the stuff of dreams to drip into the waking mind.

Science fiction is no more written for scientists than ghost stories are written for ghosts.

The prose poem Walk The Red Road is great stuff and deserves to be read aloud. It compares quite favorably to The Walls Of Emerald by Li Chiang Yen, a Chinese poet of the late Tang period.

Keep violence in the mind Where it belongs (Barefoot in the Head)

Science fiction is for real, space opera is for fun.

Why had I become a writer in the first place? Because I wasn't fit for society; I didn't fit into the system.

There are two kinds of writer: those that make you think, and those that make you wonder.