Living, we fret. Dying, we live. I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll be of good cheer.

Men of great spirit are at high risk at a time when small souls rule the world.

My temperament is not inclined toward more self-promotion than is absolutely necessary for my professional well-being.

Thus does the unyielding, inescapable future ineluctably devour the present.

Aristocrats might shrug, but commoners, dreading any collapse of the social order, wanted the rules of behavior to be observed.

I hate no one, sir. It seems a waste of emotional energy.

It has been suggested that Tiptree is female, a theory that I find absurd, for there is to me something ineluctably masculine about Tiptree’s writing. I don’t think the novels of Jane Austen could have been written by a man nor the stories of Ernest Hemingway by a woman, and in the same way I believe the author of the James Tiptree stories is male.