No, that’s journalism. The truth is whatever you can’t escape.

I was six years old when my parents told me that there was a small, dark jewel inside my skull, learning to be me.

Mathematics catalogues everything that is not self-contradictory; within that vast inventory, physics is an island of structures rich enough to contain their own beholders.

Australian SF book publishing has undergone a boom recently, and sometimes it's easier for new writers to sell a book to a local publisher first, which then makes a US edition more likely.

For there is a truth which cannot be bought or sold, imposed by force, resisted or escaped.

On his eighteenth day in the tiger cage, Robert Stoney began to lose hope of emerging unscathed.

It was almost noon when the plane touched down at the Triad airport on the outskirts of Greensboro. There was a hire car waiting for me; I waved my notepad at the dashboard to transmit my profile, then waited as the seating and controls rearranged themselves slightly, piezoelectric actuators humming. As I started to reverse out of the parking bay, the stereo began a soothing improvisation, flashing up a deadpan title: Music for Leaving Airports 11 June 2008.