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Science fiction is sometimes called the language of ideas,
No drug we have will keep you from dreaming, unless it kills you.
Orr had a tendency to assume that people knew what they were doing, perhaps because he generally assumed that he did not.
We all get by just fine here in America, and if our living standard has had to lower in some ways it’s even higher in others than it was a generation ago.
Daydream, which is to thought as the nebula is to the star, borders on sleep, and is concerned with it as its frontier. An atmosphere inhabited by living transparencies: there’s a beginning of the unknown. But beyond it the Possible opens out, immense. Other beings, other facts, are there. No supernaturalism, only the occult continuation of infinite nature.… Sleep is in contact with the Possible, which we also call the improbable. The world of the night is a world. Night, as night, is a universe.… The dark things of the unknown world become neighbors of man, whether by true communication or by
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proceeding toward ruin with composure and a certain dirty magnificence.
She had had a good deal of love as a kid but no strength around her, nobody to lean on ever: people had leaned on her. Thirty years she had longed to meet somebody who didn’t lean on her, who wouldn’t ever, who couldn’t.…
Life is the most incredible mess,
you’re the man in the middle of the graph.
But change need not unbalance you; life’s not a static object, after all. It’s a process. There’s no holding still. Intellectually you know that, but emotionally you refuse it. Nothing remains the same from one moment to the next, you can’t step into the same river twice.
Il descend, réveillé, l’autre côté du rêve. —VICTOR HUGO, LES CONTEMPLATIONS
“There is time. There are returns. To go is to return.”
