Nice Things Are Nicer Than Nasty Ones.

When That Ineffable Compound Of Depression, Sadness (these Two Are Not The Same), Anxiety, Self-hatred, Sense Of Failure And Fear For The Future Begins To Steal Over You, Start Telling Yourself That What You Have Is A Hangover. You Are Not Sickening For Anything, You Have Not Suffered A Minor Brain Lesion, You Are Not All That Bad At Your Job, Your Family And Friends Are Not Leagued In A Conspiracy Of Barely Maintained Silence About What A S**t You Are, You Have Not Come At Last To See Life As It Really Is And There Is No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk.

[science Fiction Is] That Class Of Prose Narrative Treating Of A Situation That Could Not Arise In The World We Know, But Which Is Hypothesised On The Basis Of Some Innovation In Science Or Technology, Or Pseudo-science Or Pseudo-technology, Whether Human Or Extra-terrestrial In Origin. It Is Distinguished From Pure Fantasy By Its Need To Achieve Verisimilitude And Win The 'willing Suspension Of Disbelief' Through Scientific Plausibility.

The Human Race Has Not Devised Any Way Of Dissolving Barriers, Getting To Know The Other Chap Fast, Breaking The Ice, That Is One-tenth As Handy And Efficient As Letting You And The Other Chap, Or Chaps, Cease To Be Totally Sober At About The Same Rate In Agreeable Surroundings.

Your Attitude Measures Up To The Two Requirements Of Love. You Want To Go To Bed With Her And Can't, And You Don't Know Her Very Well. Ignorance Of The Other Person Topped Up With Deprivation, Jim. You Fit The Formula All Right, And What's More You Want To Go On Fitting It.

Women Are Really Much Nicer Than Men: No Wonder We Like Them.