When Childhood Dies, Its Corpses Are Called

Most Of My Poetry Lies Beyond The Sf Field, Yet Here I Am Corralled Into 'sf Poetry' As Part Of This Poetry Weekend. Of Course, Some Might Say, 'you've Made Your Own Bed - Now You Must Lie In It!' But, While Fully Accepting That Dictum, I'm Not Yet Quite Prepared To Lie Down.

My Briefest Ever Definition Of Science Fiction Is 'hubris Clobbered By Nemesis.'

Why Had I Become A Writer In The First Place? Because I Wasn't Fit For Society; I Didn't Fit Into The System.

Its At Night, When Perhaps We Should Be Dreaming, That The Mind Is Most Clear, That We Are Most Able To Hold All Our Life In The Palm Of Our Skull. I Dont Know If Anyone Has Ever Pointed Out That Great Attraction Of Insomnia Before, But It Is So; The Night Seems To Release A Little More Of Our Vast Backward Inheritance Of Instincts And Feelings; As With The Dawn, A Little Honey Is Allowed To Ooze Between The Lips Of The Sandwich, A Little Of The Stuff Of Dreams To Drip Into The Waking Mind.

I've No Objection To Morality, Except That It's Obsolete.