If you expect me to believe that a lawyer wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I must be dafter than I look.
The government was to raise the duty on cheese to 83 percent, an unpopular move that would doubtless have the more militant citizens picketing cheese shops.
Without a yardstick sometimes the high points can be taken for granted.
Apart from the faint odor of ink that pervaded the scene, it might have been real.
Scientific thought – indeed, any mode of thought, whether it be religious or philosophical or anything else – is just like the fashions that we wear – only much longer lived. It’s a little like a boy band.
The barriers between reality and fiction are softer than we think; a bit like a frozen lake. Hundreds of people can walk across it, but then one evening a thin spot develops and someone falls through; the hole is frozen over by the following morning.
Death, I had discovered long ago, was available in varying flavors, and none of them particularly palatable.
There is a certain degree of steampunkishness that creeps into my books.
You have many fine qualities that I admire. But you are out of time. You should have been born a century ago, when values such as yours meant something.
That’s the thing about destiny: It can’t be predicted, and it’s usually pretty odd.
People don’t change just because you know more about them.
I wished I could share my own optimism.
Everything comes to an end. A good bottle of wine, a summer’s day, a long-running sitcom, one’s life, and eventually our species. The question for many of us is not that everything will come to an end but when. And can we do anything vaguely useful until it does?
Writing needs to be practiced; there is a limit to how much can be gleaned from a teacher or a manual. The true essence of writing is out there, in the world, and inside, within yourself. To write, you have to give.
Sometimes choice is a luxury that fate does not afford us.
The industrial age had only just begun; the planet had reached its Best Before date.
Lesson one in time travel, Thursday. First of all, we are all time travellers. The vast majority of us manage only one day per day.
Death and the end of one’s life are two very different things indeed.
Love isn’t sensible, Red. I think that’s the point.
I’ve got six months to sort out the hackers, get the Japanese knotweed under control and find an acceptable form of narcissus.