I am madness maddened when it comes to books, writers, and the great granary silos where their wits are stored.

Books are flesh-and-blood ideas and cry out, silently, when put to the torch.

I have my favorite cat, who is my paperweight, on my desk while I am writing.

You either have an imaginative mind or you don't. All of my writing is God-given. I don't write my stories - they write themselves.

Cram them full of non-combustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. Then they’ll feel they’re thinking, they’ll get a sense of motion without moving. And they’ll be happy, because facts of that sort don’t change. Don’t give them any slippery stuff like philosophy or sociology to tie things up with. That way lies melancholy.

Fantasies are things that can't happen, and science fiction is about things that can happen.

I think the only way we can grow and get on in this world is to accept the fact we're not perfect and live accordingly.