Siri whispered an answer to my unasked question. No, Merin, one is never really too old. At least not too old to want the warmth and closeness. You decide, my love. I will be content either way. I dec...
Silenus’s true age might be anywhere from ninety to a hundred and fifty standard years. If he were close to the latter age, the Consul knew, the odds were that the poet was quite mad. As
Sarai gripped his hand. Do you think you’re the only one who has had the dream? Dream? managed Sol. She
Prison always has been a good place for writers, killing, as it does, the twin demons of mobility and diversion, and
Pain is an interesting and off-putting thing. Few if any things in life concentrate our attention so completely and terribly, and few things are more boring to listen to or read about.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done . . . ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world . . .
Nobody gets beyond a petroleum economy. Not while there's petroleum there.
Later, dictating the tale into his comlog, the Consul remembered it as a seamless whole, minus the pauses, hoarse voice, false starts, and small redundancies which were the timeless failings of human...
Kassad reparó en las inquisitivas cejas arqueadas, las pequeñas orejas que había besado tantas veces. La blanda garganta donde había apoyado las mejillas para escuchar sus palpitaciones. Kassad la apu...
In the end--when all else is dust--loyalty to those we love is all we can carry with us to the grave. Faith--true faith--was trusting in that love.
In the end, it is all we are, these limpid tide pools of self-consciousness between crashing waves of pain.
In the end, it doesn’t matter a damn bit. We thought we were special, opening our perceptions, honing our empathy, spilling that cauldron of shared pain onto the dance floor of language and then tryin...
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.
In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was programmed in classic binary. And the Word said, Let there be life! And so, somewhere in the TechnoCore vaults of my mother’s estate, frozen sperm from...
I teach him how to pair such technique with masculine or feminine caesura, or the joys of alternating iambic foot with unstressed pyrrhic, or the self-indulgence of the frequent spondee. I
I realized at that instant just how surely the affirmation of demons or the summoning of Satan somehow can affirm the reality of their mystic antithesis—the God of Abraham.
I now understand the need for faith – pure, blind, fly-in-the-face-of-reason faith – as a small life preserver in the wild and endless sea of a universe ruled by unfeeling laws and totally indifferent...
I doubt if he ever confronted and acknowledged his own deeper motivations, except when they were as pure as spring water.
I am tired of this city. I am tired of its pagan pretensions and false histories. Hyperion is a poet’s world devoid of poetry. Keats itself is a mixture of tawdry, false classicism and mindless, boomt...
Holmes smiled tightly. I discovered, Mr. James, he said as he leaned closer, that I was not a real person. I am…how would a literary person such as yourself put it? I am, the evidence has proven to me...