The Earth is beautiful, and bright, and kindly, but that is not all. The Earth is also terrible, and dark, and cruel. The rabbit shrieks dying in the green meadows.
URSULA K. LE GUINIf you evade suffering you also evade the chance of joy. Pleasure you may get, or pleasures, but you will not be fulfilled. You will not know what it is to come home.
More Ursula K. Le Guin Quotes
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A panda walks into a tea room and ordered a salad and ate it. Then it pulled out a pistol, shot the man in the next table dead, and walked out.
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Listen.’ For being saved is not the point. Music saves nothing. Merciful, uncaring, it denies and breaks down all the shelters, the houses men build for themselves, that they may see the sky.
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Translation is entirely mysterious. Increasingly I have felt that the art of writing is itself translating, or more like translating than it is like anything else.
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We will need writers who can remember freedom. Poets, visionaries-the realists of a larger reality.
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We’re each of us alone, to be sure. What can you do but hold your hand out in the dark?
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While we read a novel, we are insane-bonkers. We believe in the existence of people who aren’t there, we hear their voices… Sanity returns (in most cases) when the book is closed.
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We will not know our own injustice if we cannot imagine justice. We will not be free if we do not imagine freedom.
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To see that your life is a story while you’re in the middle of living it may be a help to living it well.
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You will die. You will not live forever. Nor will any man nor any thing. Nothing is immortal. But only to us is it given to know that we must die. And that is a great gift: the gift of selfhood. For we have only what we know we must lose, what we are willing to lose…
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As great scientists have said and as all children know, it is above all by the imagination that we achieve perception, and compassion, and hope.
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I don’t think ‘science fiction’ is a very good name for it, but it’s the name that we’ve got. It is different from other kinds of writing, I suppose, so it deserves a name of its own.
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Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk’s flight on the empty sky.
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Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.
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First sentences are doors to worlds.
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Nobody who says, ‘I told you so’ has ever been, or will ever be, a hero.
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