You need a certain amount of nerve to be a writer, an almost physical nerve, the kind you need to walk a log across a river.

Everybody acts as if they have free will. They act as if they can make these decisions; do they know they don't? I think there's been some back-down on the idea that everything is determined.

It was like being in an elevator cut loose at the top. Falling, falling, and not knowing when you will hit.

Science and fiction both begin with similar questions: What if? Why? How does it all work? But they focus on different areas of life on earth.

At moments like this I envy those who have found a safe haven in which to bestow their hearts; or perhaps I envy them for having a heart to bestow. I often feel that I myself am without one, and possess in its stead merely a heart shaped stone.

I am afraid of falling into hopeless despair, over my wasted life, and I am still not sure how it happened.

Which of us can resist the temptation of being thought indispensable?