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They think they are free because they have never been free, and do not know what it means.
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We are living in a computer-programmed reality, and the only clue we have to it is when some variable is changed, and some alteration in reality occurs. We have the overwhelming impression that we were reliving the present - deja vu.
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Where there’s dope, there’s hope!
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No one today remembered why the war had come about or who, if anyone, had won. The dust which had contaminated most of the planet’s surface had originated in no country, and no one, even the wartime enemy, had planned on it.
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Am I being paid back for something I did? He asked himself. Something I don't know about or remember? But nobody pays back, he reflected. I learned that a long time ago: you're not paid back for the bad you do nor the good you do. It all comes out uneven at the end. Haven’t I learned that by now, if I've learned anything?
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The two basic topics which fascinate me are 'What is reality?' and 'What constitutes the authentic human being?'
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In this dark world where he now dwelt, ugly things and surprising things and once in a long while a tiny wondrous thing spilled out at him constantly; he could count on nothing.
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Even if all life on our planet is destroyed, there must be other life somewhere which we know nothing of. It is impossible that ours is the only world; there must be world after world unseen by us, in some region or dimension that we simply do not perceive. Even though I can't prove that, even though it isn't logical - I believe it.
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The vidphone company let me off the hook.
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In 1955, when I'd write a science-fiction novel, I'd set it in the year 2000. I realised around 1977 that, 'My God, it's getting exactly like those novels we used to write in the 1950s!' Everything's just turning out to be real.
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Helping people was one of the two basic things Fat had been told to give up; helping people and taking dope. He had stopped taking dope, but all his energy and enthusiasm were now totally channelled into saving people. Better he had kept on with the dope.
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Strange how paranoia can link up with reality now and then.
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Skill is a function of chance. It’s an intuitive best-use of chance situations.
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The hell with the newspapers. Nobody reads the letters to the editor column except the nuts. It's enough to get you down.
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You’re a goldmine of misinformation.
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'Are you an official of some kind? Like a greeter? Or from the L. A. Chamber of Commerce? I've had dealings with them and they’re all right.''No,' Buckman said. 'I'm an individual. Like you.'
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I am one of the elect, one of the few in the know, in the gnosis.
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'You are certain you can keep the truth from her?' 'Sure,' Ed said confidently. 'I know I can.' 'All right.' The Old Man nodded slowly. 'I will send you back. But you must tell no one.' He swelled visibly. 'Remember: you will eventually come back to me - everyone does, in the end - and your fate will not be enviable.'
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Cris didn't play fair. He had watched half an hour - then come out and thrown once. One perfect toss, one dead ringer.
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Each of us assumes everyone else knows what HE is doing. They all assume we know what WE are doing. We don't … Nothing is going on and nobody knows what it is. Nobody is concealing anything except the fact that he does not understand anything anymore and wishes he could go home.
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This time, there was no punishment from above. Sighing, Hamilton almost wished there had been; the capricious personality element infuriated him. There was just too little relationship between deed and punishment; the lightning was probably cutting down some totally innocent Cheyennite, on the far side of town.
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'How come you didn’t recognize me?' Hentman said crossly. 'Aren’t I world-famous? Or maybe you don’t watch TV.'
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I think that, like in my writing, reality is always a soap bubble, Silly Putty thing anyway. In the universe people are in, people put their hands through the walls, and it turns out they're living in another century entirely. … I often have the feeling - and it does show up in my books - that this is all just a stage.
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An Irishman hears that the banks are failing. He runs into the bank where he keeps his money and demands every cent of it. 'Yes sir,' the teller says politely. 'Do you want it in cash or in the form of a check?' The Irishman replies: 'Well, if you have it, I don't want it. But if you haven't got it, I must have it immediately.'