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

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

Who could not return from a visit to Jack Vance's world, without feeling that he had been somewhere unique, that he had experienced things unavailable in our mundane world?

I find the world and all it contains extremely fascinating. Is this sinful?

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.

We are born by accident into a purely random universe.

When you know that something is dying inside you, you learn not to put much trust in the random vitalities of the fleeting moment.