Clifford D. Simak Quotes
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And death was a soft thing, soft and black, cool and sweet and gracious. He slipped into it as a swimmer slips into the surf and it closed over him and held him and he felt the pulse and beat of it and knew the vastness and sureness of it.
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What do you mean by faith? Is faith enough for Man? Should he be satisfied with faith alone? Is there no way of finding out the truth? Is the attitude of faith, of believing in something for which there can be no more than philosophic proof, the true mark of a Christian?
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The people finally know. They've been told about the mutants. And they hated the mutants. Of course, they hated them. They hated them because the existence of the mutants makes them second-class humans, because they are Neanderthalers suddenly invaded by a bow and arrow people.
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'It wouldn’t be the truth,' said Sutton.'That,' said Trevor, 'doesn’t have a thing to do with it.'
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Individualists would have little use for a device which would make them understand one another, for they would not care whether they understood one another.
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He sat and watched them come and he thought of going in to get a rifle, but he didn’t stir from his seat upon the steps. The rifle would do no good, he told himself. It would be a senseless thing to get it; more than that, a senseless attitude. The least that man could do, he thought, was to meet these creatures of another world with clean and empty hands.
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I have not long to live. I have lasted more than a man’s average allotted span, and while I still am hale and hearty, I know full well the hand of time, while it may miss a man at one reaping, will get him at the next.
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'Much of what we see in the universe,' said Hugo, 'starts out as imaginary. Often you must imagine something before you can come to terms with it.'
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'Anita,' he asked, 'are there really werewolves?''Yes,' she told him. 'Your werewolves are down there.'And that was right, he thought. The darkness of the mind, the bleakness of the thought, the shallowness of purpose. These were the werewolves of the world.
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It would be three-dimensional chess with a million billion squares and a million pieces, and with the rules changing ever move.
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They’d lived all their life on Earth; they knew nothing but the Earth. They had never really touched an alien concept, and that was all this concept was. It was not really as slimy as it seemed. It was only alien. There were a lot of alien things that could make one’s hair stand up on end while in their proper alien context they were fairly ordinary.
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It was authority that turned men suspicious and stern-faced. Authority and responsibility which made them not themselves, but a sort of corporate body that tried to think as a corporate body rather than as a person.
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'We're very close to immortal, you know. The time mechanism keeps it that way.' 'No, I hadn't known,' said Boone. 'Inside the time bubble we do not age. We age only when we are outside of it.'
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Beyond his own sure knowledge, he had not a shred of proof.
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'They changed,' said Enid, 'from corporeal beings, from biological beings, to incorporeal beings, immaterial, pure intelligences. They now are ranged in huge communities on crystal lattices...'
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I’m just a propagandist and a propagandist doesn’t have to know what he is talking about, just so he talks about it most convincingly.
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Without consciousness and intelligence, the universe would lack meaning.
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Boone gulped and swallowed. He spoke to The Hat. 'You said the Highway to Eternity?' That is not what I said. I said the Highway of Eternity.'Small difference,' Boone told him. Not so small as you might think.
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They are worse than the disinherited. They are not the has-beens, they are the never-weres.
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The chain of life runs smoothly from one generation to the next and none of the links stand out except here and there a link one sees by accident.
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The past, he said. The past is too much with me. And the past has made me useless. I have too much to remember-so much to remember that it becomes more important than the things there are to do. I’m living in the past and that is no way to live.
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The old and the young, he thought. The old, who do not care; the young, who do not think.
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If there could only be more time, he thought. But, of course, there never was. There was not the time right now and there would never be. No matter how many centuries he might be able to devote, there'd always be so much more knowledge than he'd gathered at the moment that the little he had gathered would always seem a pittance.
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Man was engaged in a mad scramble for power and knowledge, but nowhere is there any hint of what he meant to do with it once he had attained it.