The notion that the public accepts or rejects anything in modern art is merely romantic fiction. The game is completed and the trophies distributed long before the public knows what has happened.
Everything a writer learns about the art or craft of fiction takes just a little away from his need or desire to write at all. In the end he knows all the tricks and has nothing to say.
Great genius takes shape by contact with another great genius, but, less by assimilation than by fiction.
The difference between fiction and reality is that fiction has to make sense.
Facts have long since upstaged fiction, and the novelistic imagination now contents itself with documenting incidents it wouldn't have the temerity to invent.
Everything is becoming science fiction. From the margins of an almost invisible literature has sprung the intact reality of the 20th century.
I do not see the motivation to lie, it is a known fact that truth can be more interesting than the strangest of fictions.
A fiction about soft or easy deaths is part of the mythology of most diseases that are not considered shameful or demeaning.
Science fiction writers foresee the inevitable, and although problems and catastrophes may be inevitable, solutions are not.
The boundary between philosophy and fiction is not as clear cut as you may think and the two definitely interact.
Given that external reality is a fiction, the writer's role is almost superfluous. He does not need to invent the fiction because it is already there.
If you are inclined to leave your character solitary for any considerable length of time, better question yourself. Fiction is association, not
Individual science fiction stories may seem as trivial as ever to the blinder critics and philosophers of today - but the core of science fiction, its essence has become crucial to our salvation if we are to be saved at all.
The acceptance that all that is solid has melted into the air, that reality and morality are not givens but imperfect human constructs, is the point from which fiction begins.
The great mystery is why robots come off so well in science-fiction films when the human characters are often so astoundingly wooden.
What is a novel if not a conviction of our fellow-men's existence strong enough to take upon itself a form of imagined life clearer than reality and whose accumulated verisimilitude of selected episodes puts to shame the pride of documentary history?
I at least have so much to do in unraveling certain human lots, and seeing how they were woven and interwoven, that all the light I can command must be concentrated on this particular web, and not dispersed over that tempting range of relevancies called the universe.
Writing a novel is not merely going on a shopping expedition across the border to an unreal land: it is hours and years spent in the factories, the streets, the cathedrals of the imagination.
One should not be too severe on English novels; they are the only relaxation of the intellectually unemployed.
Novels so often provide an anodyne and not an antidote, glide one into torpid slumbers instead of rousing one with a burning brand.
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.
For if the proper study of mankind is man, it is evidently more sensible to occupy yourself with the coherent, substantial and significant creatures of fiction than with the irrational and shadowy figures of real life.
The traditional novel form continues to enlarge our experience in those very areas where the wide-angle lens and the Cinema screen tend to narrow it.
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