Here, In The Bare Dark Face Of

"i Think I Know The Real Reason." "which Is?" "alcohol In The Dust Clouds. Goddamn Stuff Is Everywhere. Any Lousy Species Ever Invents The Telescope And The Spectroscope And Starts Looking In Between The Stars, What Do They Find?" He Knocked The Glass On The Table. "loads Of Stuff, But Much Of It Alcohol." He Drank From The Glass. "humanoids Are The Galaxy's Way Of Trying To Get Rid Of All That Alcohol."

As Long As A Film Stays Unmade, The Book Is Entirely Yours, It Belongs To The Writer. As Soon As You Make It Into A Film, Suddenly More People See It Than Have Ever Read The Book.

I Just Come Up With The Stories And Write Them As Well As I Can. There's Not Really A Great Deal Of Strokey-beard Thinking Going On.

I Just Took [my Cancer Diagnosis] As Bad Luck, Basically. It Did Strike Me Almost Immediately, My Atheist Sort Of Thing Kicked In And I Thought "ha, If I Was A God-botherer, I'd Be Thinking, Why Me God? What Have I Done To Deserve This?" And I Thought At Least I'm Free Of That, At Least I Can Simply Treat It As Bad Luck And Get On With It.

"don't You Have A Religion?" Dorolow Asked Horza. "yes," He Replied, Not Taking His Eyes Away From The Screen On The Wall Above The End Of The Main Mess-room Table. "my Survival."