Well, I think everything I've ever read contributes to the background from which I write.

Somebody else's ignorance is bliss.

I was a carpenter for a time and everybody watches what you do.

The less a writer discusses his work and himself the better. The master chef slaughters no chickens in the dining room; the doctor writes prescriptions in Latin; the magician hides his hinges, mirrors, and trapdoors with the utmost care.

In the end, death came uniformly to all, and all extracted as much satisfaction from their dying as this essentially graceless process could afford.

Vance has a genius in evoking the beauty of strangeness, the strangeness of beauty.

The life we've been leading couldn't last forever. It's a wonder it lasted as long as it did.