It's a guilty secret of a lot of writers, as you get older you don't read as much fiction as you used to, mainly because it's like you are deconstructing it all the time.

What's the good of having mastery over cosmic balance and knowing the secrets of fate if you can't blow something up?

The only really sane person in there is Igor, and possibly the turnip. And I'm not sure about the turnip.

It is a mistake trying to cheer up camels. You may as well drop meringues into a black hole.

You get all sorts of people in the library, and the librarian gets it all.

Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder and sieve it through the finest sieve and then show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy. and yet... and yet you act as if there is some ideal order in the world, as if there is some... some rightness in the universe by which it may be judged.

I believe it should be possible for someone stricken with a serious and ultimately fatal illness to choose to die peacefully with medical help, rather than suffer.