A man would know the end he goes to, but he cannot know it if he does not turn, and return to his beginning, and hold that beginning in his being. If he would not be a stick whirled and whelmed in the stream, he must be the stream itself, all of it, from its spring to its sinking in the sea.

Science fiction is not prescriptive; it is descriptive.

I am no more lonely than the loon on the pond that laughs so loud.

The borderline between prose and poetry is one of those fog-shrouded literary minefields where the wary explorer gets blown to bits before ever seeing anything clearly. It is full of barbed wire and the stumps of dead opinions.

Hate gets going, it goes round, it gets older and tighter and older and tighter, until it holds a person inside it like a fist holds a stick.

She obeys me, but only because she wants to. It's the only justification for obedience, Ged observed.

Dead anarchists make martyrs, you know, and keep living for centuries. But absent ones can be forgotten.