Human intelligence was more trouble than it was worth. It was more destructive than creative, more confusing than revealing, more discouraging than satisfying, more spiteful than charitable.

Science is as corruptible a human activity as any other.

One of the most difficult things for a writer in this business to accept is the uncertain fate of one's work.

The rules of grammar exist in large part to permit readers and writers to operate from a shared set of expectations.

The truth is, almost nobody wants to experience real nature. What people want is to spend a week or two in a cabin in the woods, with screens on the windows. They want a simplified life for a while, without all their stuff. Or a nice river rafting trip for a few days, with somebody else doing the cooking. Nobody wants to go back to nature in any real way, and nobody does. It's all talk.

This novel is fiction, except for the parts that aren't.

Nobody is driven by abstractions like 'seeking truth.