And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day - the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue. Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in

I’m really alive! he thought. I never knew it before, or if I did I don’t remember!

If you write a hundred short stories and they're all bad, that doesn't mean you've failed. You fail only if you stop writing.

When you grow up in science fiction you grow up in everything! It's the greatest and only field worth growing up in. It's the total field.

...I mean, you don't just love people, you must LOVE them with exclamation points.

Men read science fiction to build the future. Women don't need to read it. They are the future.

So it was the hand that started it all . . . His hands had been infected, and soon it would be his arms . . . His hands were ravenous.