A predilection for genre fiction is symptomatic of a kind of arrested development.

Let me tell you about the end of the world. It happened fifty years ago. Maybe a hundred. And since then it's been lovely. I mean it. Nobody tries to bother you. You can relax. You know what? I like the end of the world.

Poets are regarded as handicapped writers whose work must be treated with a tender condescension, such as one accords the athletic achievements of basketball players confined to wheelchairs.

But the toaster was quite satisfied with itself, thank you. Though it knew from magazines that there were toasters who could toast four slices at a time, it didn't think that the master, who lived alone and seemed to have few friends, would have wanted a toaster of such institutional proportions. With toast, it's quality that matters, not quantity.

Creativeness is finding patterns where none exist.

Though opposition is a hopeless task, acquiescence would be worse.

The gods, after all, are only human, and once their rage has been placated they are perfectly capable of acts of mercy and grace.