Practically All Sf Is Trash.

The Demand For Absolute Purity Of Genres Is Becoming Nowadays An Anachronism In Literature.

I Never Read To Kill Time. Killing Time Is Like Killing Someone's Wife Or A Child. There Is Nothing More Precious For Me Than Time.

Come, Every Frustum Longs To Be A Cone, And Every Vector Dreams Of Matrices. Hark To The Gentle Gradient Of The Breeze: It Whispers Of A More Ergodic Zone.

Each Civilization May Choose One Of Two Roads To Travel, That Is, Either Fret Itself To Death, Or Pet Itself To Death. And In The Course Of Doing One Or The Other, It Eats Its Way Into The Universe, Turning Cinders And Flinders Of Stars Into Toilet Seats, Pegs, Gears, Cigarette Holders And Pillowcases, And It Does This Because, Unable To Fathom The Universe, It Seeks To Change That Fathomlessness Into Something Fathomable.

Art Gives Man A Reminder That He Is Not Just A Consumer But A Creator As Well. It Awakens In Him The Urge To Struggle And Perform Great Deeds; It Fills Him With The Craving To Pass On The Promethean Fire To Generations To Come.