I want to write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards. Okay, so I should revise my standards; I'm out of step. I should yield to reality. I have never yielded to reality. That's what SF is all about. If you wish to yield to reality, go read Philip Roth; read the New York literary establishment mainstream bestselling writers

I think great art should play a part in the ordinary man's life, don't you? It can make his existence so much richer and more meaningful.

How can justice fall victim, ever, to what is right?

But at least he can still see the lights below us. Although maybe for him it doesn't matter.

Certainly it constitutes bad news if the people who agree with you are buggier than batshit.

How undisturbed, the sleep of the foolish.

I am Ubik. Before the universe was, I am. I made the suns. I made the worlds. I created the lives and the places they inhabit; I move them here, I put them there. They go as I say, then do as I tell them. I am the word and my name is never spoken, the name which no one knows. I am called Ubik, but that is not my name. I am. I shall always be.