I said something about reading not being knowledge, about knowledge without experience being food without sustenance.
Have you noticed, said John, how countries call theirs 'sovereign nuclear deterrents,' but call the other countries' ones 'weapons of mass destruction'?
What happens to all the seconds tipped into the bin of the past?
Okay, so she’s mad as a sack of ferrets. Only I don’t tell her so ’cause I’d like more of that green tea.
The river’s vowels and the trees’ consonants speak a not-quite-foreign language.
With a story, as with a well-chosen gift, we’re happiest when surprised by something we didn’t know we wanted.
The second tunnel’s a Ministry of Defence tunnel...dug for a nuclear bomb shelter. The entrance is in the garden center at Woolworth’s in Great Malvern...When the four-minute warning goes off, the Min...
The newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterp...
Humans live in a pit of cheating, exploiting, hurting, incarcerating. Every time, the species wastes some part of what it could be. This waste is poisonous.
Hell hell because, there, evil passes unremarked upon.
Strip back the beliefs pasted on by governesses, schools, and states, you find indelible truths at one's core. Rome'll decline and fall again, Cortés'll lay Tenochtitlán to waste again, and later, Ewi...
She'n'her bros at the school'ry'd made a new game, Zachry'n'Meronym on Mauna Kia, but Abbess say-soed 'em not to 'cos times are pretendin' can bend bein'. A whoah game it was, said Catkin, but I din't...
What if trying to avoid the future is what triggers it all?
Lying's wrong, but when the world spins backwards, a small wrong may be a big right.
Heresy is fissiparous, however.
Think of Big Mac’s aphorism: In order to have sex, women need to feel loved; but in order for men to feel loved, we need to have sex.
I envied my uncritical, unthinking sisters.
Writing poetry's,' I looked around the solarium, but Madame Crommelynck's got a tractor beam, 'sort of . . . gay.' 'Gay? A merry activity?' This was hopeless. 'Writing poems is . . . what creeps and p...
Time is the speed at which the past decays.
I am designing the future on beer mats, like Churchill and Stalin at Yalta.
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