A novelist is, like all mortals, more fully at home on the surface of the present than in the ooze of the past.
Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
Treading the soil of the moon, palpating its pebbles, tasting the panic and splendor of the event, feeling in the pit of one's stomach the separation from terra... these form the most romantic sensation an explorer has ever known... this is the only thing I can say about the matter. The utilitarian results do not interest me.
There are aphorisms that, like airplanes, stay up only while they are in motion.