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And death? I don't fear death. I dread the absence of it.

Robert Charles Wilson

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Robert Charles Wilson
Age: 70
Born: 1953
Born: December 15
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Whittier
California
Dread
Absence
Fear
Death

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Does it strike you, Mr. Keller, that we live every day in the science fiction of our youth?
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If I am an agnostic, Calyxa, it's because I'm also a realist.
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We're as ephemeral as raindrops. We all fall, and we all land somewhere.
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It was amazing how these events lost their impact, translated through the flat gaze of a video screen.
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The attacking piece displaces its victim. The vanquished piece leaves the plane of the board entirely. But it does not, in a higher sense, cease to exist.
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You never stop being a parent, Adam, no matter how old or wise your child becomes you'll see.
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To capture the pawn, threaten the queen.
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For such people the consummate act of moral clarity was a lynching or a suicide bombing, a fatwa or a pogrom. And they were ascendant now, rising like dark stars over a terminal landscape .
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An honest book is almost as good as a friend.
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What had been released into the desert vacuum and starry oases of the galaxy was the inexorable logic of reproduction and natural selection. What followed was parasitism, predation, symbiosis, interdependency chaos, complexity, life.
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When does loyalty become martyrdom?
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Consciousness, according to current scientific thought, was something the higher mammals had evolved in order to help them reproduce, much the way a garden slug secretes slime. It had no special ontological status. The self was a genetically modulated and biologically useful illusion.
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Everybody falls, and we all land somewhere.
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Is there any evidence to the contrary? I don't need certainty in order to act on a well-founded suspicion.
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The conversation was mesmerizing, not for its content but for the cadences of the talk, the rhythm we fell into when we were alone, now as before. Every conversation between friends or lovers creates its own easy or awkward rhythms, hidden talk that runs like a subterranean river under even the most banal exchange.
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It was the kind of experience, Molly said, that would grow calluses on an angel's ass.
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Since Deacon Hollingshead's arrival in town last July the Dominion had been hard at work, cleansing New York City of moral corruption. Corruption is a popular word with the enthusiasts of the Dominion, usually uttered as a prelude to the knife, the docket, or the noose.
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I loved Molly. Or at least I told myself I did. Or, if what I felt for her was not love, it was at least a plausible imitation, a convincing substitute.
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I understand so very little. But I am not afraid to look: I am a good observer at last. My eyes are open, and I am not afraid.
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