Science-fiction balances you on the cliff. Fantasy shoves you off.

My business is to prevent the future.

I define science fiction as the art of the possible. Fantasy is the art of the impossible.

Don't they get afraid, then?" "They have a religion for that.

Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean.

You feed yourself. Make sure you have all the information, whether it's aesthetic, scientific, mathematical, I don't care what it is. Then you walk away from it and let it ferment. You ignore it and pretend you don't care. Next thing you know, the answer comes.

For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. Such are the autumn people.