No matter how long a log stays in the water, it doesn't become a crocodile.

I was twelve when I read my first sf magazine

Every junkie, he thought, is a recording.

It really seems to me that in the midst of great tragedy, there is always the horrible possibility that something terribly funny will happen.

Amazed, Fat said, "She's decomposing and yet she's still giving birth?" "Only to monsters," Dr. Stone said.

The person I am now, compared with the person in the dream, has been baffled and defeated and only supposes he enjoys a full life. In the dreams, I see what a full life really consists of, and it is not what I really have.

But an artist, he realized. Or rather so-called artist. Bohemian. That's closer to it. The artistic life without the talent.