We monitor many frequencies. We listen always. Came a voice, out of the babel of tongues, speaking to us. It played us a mighty dub.
We are that strange species that constructs artifacts intended to counter the natural flow of forgetting.
His teeth sang in their individual sockets like tuning forks, each one pitch-perfect and clear as ethanol.
It doesn’t matter how fast your modem is if you’re being shelled by ethnic separatists.
If ignorance were enough to make things not exist, the world would be more like a lot of people think it is. But it’s not. And it’s not.
A book exists at the intersection of the author’s subconscious and the reader’s response.
The future is not google-able.
Cyberspace is where you are when you’re on the telephone.
The written word still enjoyed a certain prestige here. It was a sluggish country.
I don’t always like writing, but I very much like having written.
Genuinely ubiquitous computing spreads like warm Vaseline.
My problem is that all things are increasingly interesting to me.
This perpetual toggling between nothing being new, under the sun, and everything having very recently changed, absolutely, is perhaps the central driving tension of my work.
Tim Powers is a brilliant writer.
I think science fiction gives us a wonderful toolkit to disassemble and reexamine this kind of incomprehensible, constantly changing present that we live in, that we often live in quite uncomfortably.
Novels set in imaginary futures are necessarily about the moment in which they are written.
I don’t think about the real future very much.
Some people dote on contemplating disasters.
We have no future because our present is too volatile. We have only risk management. The spinning of the given moment’s scenarios. Pattern recognition.
I do not think an enormous permanent underclass is a very good thing to have if you’re attempting to operate something that at least pretends sometimes to be a democracy.