I hate to break this to you: One of these days I'm going to die. I expect that when I croak I'll no longer be using Twitter, unless I can do it from the grave.

Why is it he feels some line has been crossed, some boundary transgressed? How much is too much, how far is too far?

Science is a tool, and we invent tools to do things we want. It's a question of how those tools are used by people.

In the animal world individuals cheat, as do we.

If you're waiting for the perfect moment, you'll never write a thing because it will never arrive. I have no routine. I have no foolproof anything. There's nothing foolproof.

Blank pages inspire me with terror.

I’m not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.