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I'm a lost soul. We do wail.

Roger Zelazny

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Roger Zelazny
Age: 58 †
Born: 1937
Born: May 13
Died: 1995
Died: June 14
Novelist
Poet
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Euclid
Ohio
Roger Joseph Zelazny
Roger Joseph Christopher Zelazny
Harrison Denmark
Soul
Wail
Lost

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Death is mighty, and is no one's friend.
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The universe did not invent justice. Man did. Unfortunately, man must reside in the universe.
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I know, too, that death is the only god who comes when you call.
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There's no such thing as civilization. The word just means the art of living in cities.
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I've always been impulsive. My thinking is usually pretty good, but I always seem to do it after I do my talking — by which time I've generally destroyed all basis for further conversation.
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Go and copulate with yon purple lizard.
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Thus did I bear Sir Lancelot de Lac to the Keep of Ganleon, whom I trusted like a brother. That is to say, not at all.
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Then you must reconcile yourself to the fact that something is always hurt by any change. If you do this, you will not be hurt yourself.
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Once a Buddha, always a Buddha.
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Of course it does not apply to me. I am the soul of honor, kindness, mercy and goodness. Trust me in all things.
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If the liberal arts do nothing else they provide engaging metaphors for the thinking they displace.
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The absence of a monument can, in its own way, be something of a monument also.
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The power to hurt ... has evolved in a direct relationship to technological advancement.
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I would never rest until I held vengeance and the throne within my hand, and good night sweet prince to anybody who stood between me and these things.
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Do you work for the government, any government?” I pay taxes, which means I work for the government, part of the time. Yes.
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Why could you not have left me as I was, in the sea of being? Because the world has need of your humility, your piety, your great teaching and your Machiavellian scheming.
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Nick swore he'd die with this boots on, on some exotic safari, but he found his Kilimanjaro in a hospital on Earth, where they'd cured everything that was bothering him, except for the galloping pneumonia he'd picked up in the hospital. That had been, roughly, two hundred and fifty years ago. I'd been a pallbearer.
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Tonight I will suck the marrow from your bones!” it said. “I will dry them and work them most cunningly into instruments of music! Whenever I play upon them, your spirit will writhe in bodiless agony!” “You burn prettily,” I said.
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