We are all eaters of souls.
This is every writer's nightmare--the sudden breakdown of meaning in the language that sustains and supports us...
Prison always has been a good place for writers, killing, as it does, the twin demons of mobility and diversion
Its hard to die. Harder to live
Luckily, even as a young man not yet become himself, John Bridgens had two things besides indecision that kept him from self-destruction - books and a sense of irony.
Belief in one's identity as a poet or writer prior to the acid test of publication is as naive and harmless as the youthful belief in one's immortality... and the inevitable disillusionment is just as painful.
Words are the only bullets in truth's bandolier. And poets are the snipers.
I loved you backward and forward in time. I loved you beyond boundaries of time and space.
There is a fullness and calmness there which can come only from knowing pain.
After fifty- five years of dedicating his life and work to the story of ethical systems, Sol Weintraub had come to a single, unshakable conclusion: any allegiance to a deity or concept or universal principal which put obedience above decent behavior toward an innocent human being was evil.
The shortest route to courage is absolute ignorance.
In such seconds of decision entire futures are made.
Evolution brings human beings. Human beings, through a long and painful process, bring humanity.
Words bend our thinking to infinite paths of self-delusion, and the fact that we spend most of our mental lives in brain mansions built of words means that we lack the objectivity necessary to see the terrible distortion of reality which language brings.
It occurs to me that our survival may depend upon our talking to one another.
In the beginning was the Word. Then came the fucking word processor. Then came the thought processor. Then came the death of literature. And so it goes.
It's one of the strangest attributes of this profession that when we writers get exhausted writing one thing, we relax by writing another.
Doing a life study while drunk and in the process of being seduced is never a formula for quality art.
Movie SF is, by definition, dumbed down - there have only been three or four SF movies in the history of film that aspire to the complexity of literary SF.
Mystery. The strangeness of place so necessary to some creative spirits. A perfect mixture of the classical utopia and the pagan mystery.
Anticlimax is, of course, the warp and way of things. Real life seldom structures a decent denouement.
If everyone could understand the working of a psychopath's mind, we undoubtedly would be closer to insanity ourselves.
She had always felt that the essence of human experience lay not primarily in the peak experiences, the wedding days and triumphs which stood out in the memory like dates circled in red on old calendars, but, rather, in the unself-conscious flow of little things-the weekend afternoon with each member of the family engaged in his or her own pursuit, their crossings and connections casual, dialogues imminently forgettable, but the sum of such hours creating a synergy which was important and eternal.
There is a certain solipsism to serious illness which claims all of one's attention as certainly as an astronomical black hole seizes anything unlucky enough to fall within its critical radius.
We are not the only avatars of humanity. Once our computing machines achieved self-consciousness, they became part of this design.
Poetry is only secondarily about words. Primarily, it is about truth. I dealt with the Ding an Sich, the substance behind the shadow, weaving powerful concepts, similes, and connections the way an engineer would raise a skyscraper with the whiskered-alloy skeleton being constructed long before the glass and plastic and chromaluminum appears.
Gass once wrote: "Language serves not only to express thought but to make possible thoughts which could not exist without it." Here is the essence of mankind's creative genius: not the edifices of civilization nor the bang-flash weapons which can end it, but the words which fertilize new concepts like spermatozoa attacking an ovum. It might be argued that the Siamese twin infants of word/idea are the only contribution the human species can, will, or should make to the raveling cosmos.
Artists recognize other artists as soon as the pencil begins to move.
Poets are the mad midwives to reality. They see not what is, nor what can be, but what must become.
Fate and victory shift ... now this way, now that way -- like a line of unarmored men under a hail of enemy arrows.
The love of violence is an aspect of our humanity. Even the weak wish to be strong primarily so they can wield the whip.
As for the depiction of the Catholic church, it's not meant to be a prediction
The beauty of that June day was almost staggering. After the wet spring, everything that could turn green had outdone itself in greenness and everything that could even dream of blooming or blossoming was in bloom and blossom. The sunlight was a benediction. The breezes were so caressingly soft and intimate on the skin as to be embarrassing.
Love was as hardwired into the structure of the universe as gravity and matter.
The Great Change is when humankind accepts its role as part of the natural order of the universe instead of its role as a cancer
There is no doubt that I have discovered the ultimate in stagnant human societies. The Bikura have realized the human dream of immortality and have paid for it with their humanity and their immortal souls.
The sum of the crowd's IQ was far below that of its most modest single member. Mobs have passions, not brains.
Love is nothing but lust misspelled.
The problem with being passionately in love ... is that it deprives you of too much sleep.