Half The Fun Of Writing A Novel

That Was How Divorced From The Human Scale Modern Warfare Had Become. You Could Smash And Destroy From Unthinkable Distances, Obliterate Planets From Beyond Their Own System And Provoke Stars Into Novae From Light-years Off... And Still Have No Good Idea Why You Were Really Fighting.

Empathize With Stupidity And You're Halfway To Thinking Like An Idiot.

I Wouldn't Like To Be A Character In One Of My Books!

Any Such Inklings Were Like A Few Scattered Grains Of Truth Dissolved In An Ocean Of Nonsense, And Were Anyway Generally Inextricably Bound Up With Patently Paranoid Ravings Which Served Only To Devalue The Small Amounts Of Sense And Pertinence With Which They Were Associated.

By The Usual Reckoning, The Worst Books Make The Best Films.