Babes, I Am So Bored Here That

The Problem Isn't To Learn To Love Humanity, But To Learn To Love Those Members Of It Who Happen To Be At Hand.

It’s A Very New, Not To Mention Vulgar, Idea That The Spectator’s Experience Should Be Identical To, Or Even Have Anything To Do With, The Artist’s.

There Is No Articulate Resonance. The Common Problem, I Suppose, Is To Have More To Say Than Vocabulary And Syntax Can Bear. That Is Why I Am Hunting In These Desiccated Streets. The Smoke Hides The Sky's Variety, Stains Consciousness, Covers The Holocaust With Something Safe And Insubstantial. It Protects From Greater Flame. It Indicates Fire, But Obscures The Source. This Is Not A Useful City. Very Little Here Approaches Any Eidolon Of The Beautiful.

Science Fiction Isn’t Just Thinking About The World Out There. It’s Also Thinking About How That World Might Be—a Particularly Important Exercise For Those Who Are Oppressed, Because If They’re Going To Change The World We Live In, They—and All Of Us—have To Be Able To Think About A World That Works Differently.

Clouds Out Of Control Decoct Anticipation. What Use Can Any Of Us Have For Two Moons? The Miracle Of Order Has Run Out And I Am Left In An Unmiraculous City Where Anything May Happen.