Man is about to be deprived of a great pole - work routine. The nightmare of capitalist society is unemployment; the nightmare of cybernetic society will be employment.
Because a star explodes and a thousand worlds like ours die, we know this world is. That is the smile: that what might not be, is.
I do not plan my fiction any more than I normally plan woodland walks; I follow the path that seems most promising at any given point, not some itinerary decided before entry.
There is no plan. All is hazard. And the only thing that will preserve us is ourselves.
It is only when our characters and events begin to disobey us that they begin to live.
To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.
I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.
How can one build a better self unless on the ruins of the old?
Art is a statement of one in the face of all; not a statement by one for the use of all.
There are some men who are consoled by the idea that there are women less attractive than their wives; and others who are haunted by the knowledge that there are more attractive.
Even more ominous ... is the fact that since the Second World War a new kind of intellectual has emerged in large numbers. ... he is only minimally interested in the proper intellectual significance of images and objects. Such people are not really intellectuals, but visuals ... A visual is more interested in style than in content ... A visual does not feel a rioting crowd being machine-gunned by the police, he simply sees a brilliant news photograph.
Wolves don't hunt singly, but always in pairs. The lone wolf was a myth.
Only one same reason is shared by all of us: we wish to create worlds as real as, but other than the world that is. Or was. This is why we cannot plan. We know a world is an organism, not a machine. We also know that a genuinely created world must be independent of its creator; a planned world (a world that fully reveals its planning) is a dead world. It is only when our characters and events begin to disobey us that they begin to live.
All novelists should live in two different worlds: a real one and an unreal one.
Our knowledge of what the richer than ourselves possess, and the poor do not, has never been more widespread. Therefore, envy, which is wanting what others have, and jealousy, which is not wanting others to have what one has, have never been more widespread.
Medieval theologians used to dispute how the angels in the heaven spent their time, when not balancing on needle points and singing anthems to the Lord. I know. They slump glued to their clouds, glasses at the ready, as the Archangel Micheal (that well-known slasher) and stonewalling St Peter open against the Devils XI. It could not be Heaven, otherwise.
I must fight with my weapons. Not his. Not selfishness and brutality and shame and resentment.
I am talking about the general psychological health of the species, man. He needs the existence of mysteries. Not their solution.
He's not human; he's an empty space disguised as a human.
I knew I would always want to go on living with myself, however hollow I became, however diseased.
The practise of an art is essential to the whole man, not because of what art is but because of what art does to the artist.
The world began in hazard and will end in it.
On the whole, dialogue is the most difficult thing, without any doubt. It's very difficult, unfortunately. You have to detach yourself from the notion of a lifelike quality. You see, actually lifelike, tape-recorded dialogue like this has very little to do with good novel dialogue. It's a matter of getting that awful tyranny of mimesis out of your mind, which is difficult.
The best wines take the longest to mature.
Forgetting’s not something you do, it happens to you. Only it didn’t happen to me.
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