I see a poem as a multi-coloured strip behind peeling plaster, in separate, shining fragments.

If man had more of a sense of humor, things might have turned out differently.

We are like snails, each stuck to his own leaf.

A smart machine will first consider which is more worth its while: to perform the given task or, instead, to figure some way out of it.

For some time there was a widely held notion (zealously fostered by the daily press) to the effect that the 'thinking ocean' of Solaris was a gigantic brain, prodigiously well-developed and several million years in advance of our own civilization, a sort of 'cosmic yogi', a sage, a symbol of omniscience, which had long ago understood the vanity of all action and for this reason had retreated into an unbreakable silence.

Our ability to adapt and therefore to accept everything is one of our greatest dangers. Creatures that are completely flexible, changeable, can have no fixed morality.

Where do consequences lead? Depends on the escort.