You must learn to control your dreams or your dreams will forever control you.
The obsession with correct political belief and expression in art is stultifying the genre as it is necessarily exclusive. We are losing our voice in artificial, forced homogeny posing as tolerance. Propaganda-disguised-as-story drives readers away as agenda takes the place of wonder, excitement, character. and conflict.
I maintain that cultural sensitivity should be replaced by cultural awareness. Awareness implies research, consideration, thought, and judiciousness….Sensitivity denies equal access to language. It segregates and censors based on the background of the writer rather than the content of the story. No society can embrace cultural sensitivity and retain full capacity for freedom of speech.
You think that because I am unwanted, because I am neglected and-and discarded-“My voice inches higher with every word, the unrestrained emotions suddenly screaming through my lungs. “You think I don’t have a heart? You think I don’t feel? You think that because I can inflict pain, that i should? You’re just like everyone else....
They have nothing to give. They have no power of making. All their power is to darken and destroy. They cannot leave this place; they are this place; and it should be left to them. They should not be denied nor forgotten, but neither should they be worshiped. The Earth is beautiful, and bright, and...
Quite a few soldiers . . . had ended up spending some time wrapped around each other, alone in the night. Most often, it was just for the touch of another person and not in the pursuit of an entangling relationship. In fact, when it happened there was usually an unspoken covenant which existed between...
Let’s try to limit our use of stealth mode from now on,” I said.
I go off-line for a few nanos and the whole world goes to DOS.
Well, I can’t prove it, but, yes, I am leaning that way.
In calce all’ultimo capitolo del copione della Contessa era scritta la nostra prossima meta: la base di Sebastopoli, in Crimea, ora in mano ai tedeschi dopo la grande avanzata seguita al collasso della Russia. Lì avremmo fatto il pieno di carburante e proseguito verso la nostra, ancora sconosciuta meta.
I told you stupid sons of bitches that this was going to happen!
We all love after-the-bomb stories. If we didn’t, why would there be so many of them? There’s something attractive about all those people being gone, about wandering in a depopulated world, scrounging cans of Campbell’s pork and beans, defending one’s family from marauders. But some secret part of us thinks it would be good to...
We’ll fight back, we’ll fight back, we’ll fight back,” a man near Doctor Stockstill was chanting. Stockstill looked at him in astonishment, wondering who he would fight back against. Things were falling on them; did the man intend to fall back upward into the sky in some sort of revenge?
No one can win against kipple,” he said, “except temporarily and maybe in one spot, like in my apartment I’ve sort of created a stasis between the pressure of kipple and nonkipple, for the time being. But eventually I’ll die or go away, and then the kipple will again take over. It’s a universal principle...
I guess I’m just an old mad scientist at bottom. Give me an underground laboratory, half a dozen atom-smashers, and a beautiful girl in a diaphanous veil waiting to be turned into a chimpanzee, and I care not who writes the nation’s laws.
Laugh as much as you breathe and love as long as you live.
I’ve never liked urban myths. I’ve never liked pretending to believe in them; never understood why everyone else doesn’t see straight through them. Why is it they’ve always happened to a friend of a friend – someone you’ve never met? Why does everyone smile and nod and pull the right faces, when they must know...
Blacker than the night, the wedge penetrated the darkness. An F 117 raced by, the roar from its engines screaming through the interior of the chopper, and then it sliced away a piece of sky and disappeared into the void.-Narrator, Truth Insurrected: The Saint Mary Project
A twisted, pale figure writhing in agony, chest bare and hideous. Tight, rigid cords of sickly green veins webbed across the boy’s body and limbs, like ropes under his skin. Purplish bruises covered the kid, red hives, bloody scratches. His bloodshot eyes bulged, darting back and forth.
Never been here before. It’s like something on the top floor of a luxury high-rise casino in Atlantic City, where they put semi-retarded adults from South Philly after they’ve blundered into the mega jackpot” Hiro Protagonist – Snow Crash
The signs shifted in my mind like a kaleidoscope of visions.
Who knew that you would be The One,” I smile, “which I guess makes me your Trinity.””My Amidala.””Your Zira.””My Sylvia.””Your…” I scour my brain, trying to remember some other great sci-fi love interest.”Ha! I’m your Saphira,” I settle back smugly, only for Trevor to start laughing.”Saphira is a dragon.
And then—what?—you graduate from Alice to Frodo to Darth?
We’re not obsessed by anything, you see,” insisted Ford.”…””And that’s the deciding factor. We can’t win against obsession. They care, we don’t. They win.””I care about lots of things,” said Slartibartfast, his voice trembling partly with annoyance, but partly also with uncertainty.”Such as?””Well,” said the old man, “life, the Universe. Everything, really. Fjords.””Would you die...