I Was Hardly Fit For

The Fatal Error Of Much Science Fiction Has Been To Subscribe To An Optimism Based On The Idea That Revolution, Or A New Gimmick, Or A Bunch Of Strong Men, Or An Invasion Of Aliens, Or The Conquest Of Other Planets, Or The Annihilation Of Half The World--in Short, Pretty Nearly Anything But The Facing Up To The Integral And Irredeemable Nature Of Mankind--can Bring About Utopian Situations. It Is The Old Error Of The Externalization Of Evil.

Man Was An Accident On This World Or It Would Have Been Made Better For Him!

Writers Must Fortify Themselves With Pride And Egotism As Best They Can. The Process Is Analogous To Using Sandbags And Loose Timbers To Protect A House Against Flood. Writers Are Vulnerable Creatures Like Anyone Else. For What Do They Have In Reality? Not Sandbags, Not Timbers. Just A Flimsy Reputation And A Name.

There Are Two Kinds Of Writer: Those That Make You Think, And Those That Make You Wonder.

Relax, Enjoy Yourself. Have Another Drink. It's Patriotic To Overconsume.