Certainly it constitutes bad news when the people who agree with you are buggier than batshit.
A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope.
This, to me, is the ultimately heroic trait of ordinary people; they say no to the tyrant and they calmly take the consequences of this resistance.
Drug misuse is not a disease, it is a decision, like the decision to step out in front of a moving car. You would call that not a disease but an error of judgment.
I guess that’s the story of life: what you most fear never happens, but what you most yearn for never happens either. This is the difference between life and fiction. I suppose it’s a good trade-off. But I’m not sure.
Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.
If I’d known it was harmless, I’d have killed it myself!
The most dangerous kind of person... is one who is afraid of his own shadow.
Can anyone alter fate? All of us combined... or one great figure... or someone strategically placed, who happens to be in the right spot. Chance. Accident. And our lives, our world, hanging on it.
It’s the basic condition of life to be required to violate our own identity.
The existence of a majority logically implies a corresponding minority.
Exactly what the powers of hell feed on: the best instincts in man.
We really do see astigmatically, in fundamental sense: our space and time creations of our own psyche and when these momentarily falter – like acute disturbance of middle ear. Occasionally we list eccentrically, all sense of balance gone.
They ought to make it a binding clause that if you find God you get to keep Him.
A merry little surge of electricity piped by automatic alarm from the mood organ beside his bed awakened Rick Deckard.
In wretched little lives like that, someone must intervene. Or at least mark their sad comings and goings. Mark and if possible permanently record so they’ll be remembered. For a better day, later on, when people will understand.
It takes a certain amount of courage, he though, to face yourself and say with candor, I’m rotten. I’ve done evil and I will again. It was no accident; it emanated from the true, authentic me.
It’s all a big racket; they’re playing it on themselves. I mean, a gun goes through a famous battle, like the Meuse-Argonne, and it’s the same as if it hadn’t, unless you know. It’s in here.′ He tapped his head. ‘In the mind, not the gun.
Look, Haley’s comet!
I don’t have time to read popular fiction. I’m too busy with work.′ Secretaries, he thought acidly, read that junk, at home in bed at night. It stimulates them. Instead of the real thing. Which they’re afraid of. But of course really crave.