Even in the obscure vast history of a planet the time it takes to make a forest counts. It takes a while. And not every planet can do it; it is no common effect, that tangling of the sun's first cool light in the shadow and complexity of innumberable wind-stirred branches.

Part of the particular interest and beauty of science fiction and fantasy: writer and reader collaborate in world-making.

Sanity returns (in most cases) when the book is closed.

Fake realism is the escapist literature of our time. And probably the ultimate escapist reading is that masterpiece of total unreality, the daily stock market report.

George, it's impossible to correct a defective reality-orientation overnight.

The fish in the creek said nothing. Fish never do. Few people know what fish think about injustice, or anything else.

In our loss and fear we craved the acts of religion, the ceremonies that allow us to admit our helplessness, our dependence on the great forces we do not understand.