I tend to think that immortal souls, invisible sky daddies, and Santa Claus all belong in the same basket. The disposition of that basket is left as an exercise for the reader.

To boldly go where no uploaded metahuman colony has gone before' has a certain ring to it, doesn't it?

The real world is devoid of narratives, after all. Narratives are just a thing that our brains do with facts in order to draw a line around the incomprehensible largeness of reality and wrestle it into something learnable and manipulable. Existence is devoid of plot, theme, and most of all moral.

Personal pride is probably a bad guide to merit.

The programmers have another saying: 'The question of whether a machine can think is no more interesting than the question of whether a submarine can swim.'

I grew up on second hand bookshops and libraries.

Publishing is the final step in making a book; if I was afraid to publish one, I wouldn't write it in the first place.