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

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

You know what they say the modern version of Pascal's Wager is? Sucking up to as many Transhumanists as possible, just in case one of them turns into God.

I hadn't given much thought to the prospect of a Hugo nomination at the time it happened, but obviously once you're nominated, winning one seems a bit less far-fetched than before.

Pop science goes flying off in all kinds of fashionable directions, and it often drags a lot of SF writers with it. I've been led astray like that myself at times.

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.

Widespread caffeine use explains a lot about the twentieth century.