The Only Truly Alien Planet Is Earth.

I Suspect That Many Of The Great Cultural Shifts That Prepare The Way For Political Change Are Largely Aesthetic.

Writing A Novel Is One Of Those Modern Rites Of Passage, I Think, That Lead Us From An Innocent World Of Contentment, Drunkenness, And Good Humor, To A State Of Chronic Edginess And The Perpetual Scanning Of Bank Statements.

Art Exists Because Reality Is Neither Real Nor Significant.

Nonetheless, Scranton Had Travelled In Space. He Had Known The Loneliness Of Separation From All Other Human Beings, He Had Gazed At The Empty Perspectives That I Myself Had Seen.

So He Left The Lagoon And Entered The Jungle Again, Within A Few Days Was Completely Lost, Following The Lagoons Southward Through The Increasing Rain And Heat, Attacked By Alligators And Giant Bats, A Second Adam Searching For The Forgotten Paradises Of The Reborn Sun.