Activity does not necessarily mean life.
Matter is plastic in the face of Mind.
I mean, knowing people, people are terrified of the unknown and they want to just kill the unknown.
The silence of the world could not rein back it’s greed. Not any longer. Not when it had virtually won.
I’d like to see you move up to the goat class, where I think you belong.
The Logos was both that which thought, and the thing which it thought: thinker and thought together. The universe, then, is thinker and thought, and since we are part of it, we as humans are, in the final analysis, thoughts of and thinkers of those thoughts.
My life and creative work are justified and completed by Blade Runner.
How can justice fall victim, ever, to what is right?
Everything is true Everything anybody has ever thought.
What constitutes the authentic human being?
Men and the world are mutually toxic to each other.
Fat realized that one of two possibilities existed and only two; either Dr. Stone was totally insane – not just insane but totally so – or else in an artful, professional fashion he had gotten Fat to talk; he had drawn Fat out and now knew that Fat was totally insane.
We should take mothers in high seas and drown them there, they are as poisonous as lead in the air.
My major preoccupation is the question, ‘What is reality?’
Skill is a function of chance. It’s an intuitive best-use of chance situations.
Where there’s dope, there’s hope!
I was twelve when I read my first sf magazine.
In a nutshell-I fear authority but at the same time I resent it-the authority and my own fear. So I rebel.
I never felt like that before. Maybe it could be depression, like you get. I can understand how you suffer now when you’re depressed; I always thought you liked it and I thought you could have snapped yourself out any time, if not alone then by means of the mood organ. But when you get that depressed you don’t care. Apathy, because you’ve lost a sense of worth. It doesn’t matter whether you feel better because you have no worth.
But the actual touch of her lingered, inside his heart. That remained. In all the years of his life ahead, the long years without her, with never seeing her or hearing from her or knowing anything about her, if she was alive or happy or dead or what, that touch stayed locked within him, sealed in himself, and never went away. That one touch of her hand.