It's always hard for an author to determine his own intentions, especially in retrospect.

I’m increasingly attracted by the idea that there can be at least small pockets where life and character and beauty and meaning continue. If I could help protect one of those from destruction, maybe that would be enough. Maybe it would be more than most people do.

In most novels, the landscape, or the place, in which the story takes part is simply a backdrop to the human action.

The mountains and moors, the wild uplands, are to be staked out like vampires in the sun, their chests pierced with rows of five-hundred-foot wind turbines and associated access roads, masts, pylons, and wires.

It's always hard for an author to determine his own intentions, especially in retrospect.

We like to think that the fate of the Earth and the fate of human worlds are the same thing, but we're not as important as that.

The world we are in today is likely to end catastrophically, as many other human worlds have done before.