The day of the android has dawned.

Science fiction is no more written for scientists than ghost stories are written for ghosts.

Obeying an inalienable law, things grew, spreading riotous and strange in their instinct for growth.

One afternoon in early January, the weather showed a lack of character. There was no frost nor wind: the trees in the garden did not stir.

Keep violence in the mind where it belongs.

Most SF is about madness, or what is currently ruled to be madness; this is part of its attraction — it's always playing with how much the human mind can encompass.

One of the objections I have against Campbell's Astounding was that there was too little love in it. It was a very loveless magazine. They never took enough account of the feeling that is always in SF.

When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them. They show us the state of our decay.

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.

Whatever creativity is, it is in part a solution to a problem.