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Anything you dream is fiction, and anything you accomplish is science, the whole history of mankind is nothing but science fiction.
There was her face, like a summer peach, beautiful and warm, and the light of the candles reflected in her dark eyes. [He] held his breath. The entire world waited and held its breath.
The huge round lunar clock was a gristmill. Shake down all the grains of Time—the big grains of centuries, and the small grains of years, and the tiny grains of hours and minutes—and the clock pulverized them, slid Time silently out in all directions in a fine pollen, carried by cold winds to blanket the town like dust, everywhere. Spores from that clock lodged in your flesh to wrinkle it, to grow bones to monstrous size, to burst feet from shoes like turnips. Oh, how that great machine…dispensed Time in blowing weathers.
[He] was always here to offer cups of good clear Walden Pond, or shout down the deep well of Shakespeare and listen, with satisfaction, for echoes. Here the lion and the hartebeest lay together, here the jackass became a unicorn.
[His] library was a fine dark place bricked with books, so anything could happen there and always did. All you had to do was pull a book from the shelf and open it and suddenly the darkness was not so dark anymore.
I don't talk things, sir. I talk the meaning of things.
Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness.
And suddenly everything, absolutely everything, was there.
I was doing a terrible thing in using the very books you clung to, to rebut you on every hand, on every point! What traitors books can be! You think they're backing you up, and then they turn on you. Others can use them, too, and there you are, lost in the middle of the moor, in a great welter of nouns and verbs and adjectives.
Digression is the soul of wit. Take the philosophic asides away from Dante, Milton or Hamlet's father's ghost and what stays is dry bones.
What are the best things and the worst things in your life, and when are you going to get around to whispering or shouting them?
In your reading, find books to improve your color sense, your sense of shape and size in the world.
Do you ever read any of the books you burn?" He laughed. "That's against the law!" "Oh. Of course.
Sometimes you just have to jump out the window and grow wings on the way down.
When your dawn theater sounds to clear your sinuses: don't delay. Jump. Those voices may be gone before you hit the shower to align your wits. Speed is everything. The 90-mph dash to your machine is a sure cure for life rampant and death most real. Make haste to live. Oh, God, yes. Live. And write. With great haste.
Poverty made a sound like a wet cough in the shadows of the room.
The trouble with Jim was he looked at the world and could not look away. And when you never look away all your life, by the time you are thirteen you have done twenty years taking in the laundry of the world.
God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of each other.
You're either in love with what you do, or you're not in love.
Out of the nursery into the college and back into the nursery; there’s your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more.
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