. . yet there is no avoiding time, the sea of time, the sea of memory and forgetfulness, the years of promise, gone and unrecoverable, of the land almost allowed to claim its better destiny, only to...
So claim'd are the Surveyors in their contra-solar Return by Might-it-bes, and If-it-weres, - not to mention What-was-thats.
Grownups acting like the worst kind of kids, kids acting like they knew what was going on.
Film and calculus, both pornographies of flight.
Writers, people you didn’t even have to say hello to—and still be horribly murdered for your trouble. Once-overs you’d found ways to ignore now had you looking for the particular highlight off some cr...
Wanted to believe—like a child hearing, in perfect safety, a tale of horror—that the unconscious would be like any other room, once the light was let in. That the dark shapes would resolve only into t...
Dark and be lost forever, some to edge into the fitful light of his attention whether he wanted to see them or not. Shasta had nailed it. Forget who—what was he working for anymore?
Young Tchitcherine was the one who brought up political narcotics. Opiates of the people.Wimpe smiled back. An old, old smile to chill even the living fire in Earth’s core. Marxist dialectics? That’s...
Yeah, but nowadays it's all you see anymore is cops, the tube is saturated with fucking cop shows, just being regular guys, only tryin to do their job, folks, no more threat to nobody's freedom than s...
When they come to explain about the two Transits of Venus, and the American Work filling the Years between, By Heaven, a ‘Sandwich,’ cries Mr. Edgewise. Take good care, Sirs, that something don’t come...
What, I should only trust good people? Man, good people get bought and sold every day. Might as well trust somebody evil once in a while, it makes no more or less sense.
What is most appealing about young folks, after all, is the changes, not the still photograph of finished character but the movie, the soul in flux.
Wer die Wahrheit beansprucht, den verläßt sie. In Dienst genommen oder gezwungen wird die Historik stets nur von niedrigen Interessen. Sie ist zu unschuldig, als daß man sie in Griffweite irgendeines...
Well, ring-tailed rutabagas.
Was it home, the mercury-lit street? Was he returning like the elephant to his graveyard, to lie down and soon become ivory in whose bulk slept, latent, exquisite shapes of chessmen, backscratchers, h...
Up on the bridge of the Anubis, the storm paws loudly on the glass, great wet flippers falling at random in out of the night whap! the living shape visible just for the rainbow edge of the sound—it ta...
Time travel, as it turns out, is not for civilian tourists, you don't just climb into a machine, you have to do it from the inside out, with your mind and body, and navigating Time is an unforgiving d...
This spiritualist, this statistician, what are you anyway?
There are stories, like maps that agree... too consistent among too many languages and histories to be only wishful thinking.... It is always a hidden place, the way into it is not obvious, the geogra...
The ordered swirl of houses and streets, from this high angle, sprang at her now with the same unexpected, astonishing clarity as the circuit card had.