Unacceptable, maybe. But not unthinkable. Nothing's unthinkable once somebody's thought it.

It was like that all the time, in those years: an endless trip, a gaudy voyage. But powers decay. Time leaches the colors from the best of visions. The world becomes grayer. Entropy beats us down. Everything fades. Everything goes. Everything dies.

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

Autobiography. Apparently one should not name the names of those one has been to bed with, or give explicit figures on the amount of money one has earned, those being the two data most eagerly sought by readers; all the rest is legitimate to reveal.

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

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