I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumbled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.
There are no answers, only choices.
Science explains the world, but only Art can reconcile us to it.
Practically all SF is trash.
It has no meaning, what do you use to write, the only thing that is important is: what do you write. A machine to write a book instead of a writer is not invented yet, and probably will never be.
Everything is explicable in the terms of the behavior of a small child.