About Robert Charles Wilson: Robert Charles Wilson is an American-Canadian science fiction author.
Children wear their natures like brightly-colored clothes; that's why they lie so transparently. Adulthood is the art of deceit.
By definition, you can’t experience your own death. Death is the end of consciousness. And consciousness persists. In the language of physics, consciousness is conserved. I am the one who wakes up in the morning. Always. Every morning. I don’t di...
I won't put my ignorance on an altar and call it God. It feels like idolatry, like the worst kind of idolatry.
Certainly it's a rare glimpse into the lives of the Secular Ancients. They don't seem as bad as the Dominion histories make them out to be. Though clearly they were imperfect." "I don't deny that they were imperfect," Julian said in a distant voice. ...
The universe, it seemed, was full to brimming with lonesome places.
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 ...
We are all strangers to ourself and each other and we are seldom formally introduced.
We're as ephemeral as raindrops. We all fall, and we all land somewhere.
There are so many kinds of time. The time by which we measure our lives. Months and years. Or the time, the time that raises mountains and makes stars. Or all the things that happen between one heartbeat and the next. Its hard to live in all those ki...
Sandra had studied psychiatry in order to understand the nature of despair, but all she had really learned was the pharmacology of it. The human mind was easier to medicate than to comprehend.
No one dreamed them up. No one needed to. The vampire clawing at the window, the werewolf prowling the moor, the hags at the crossroads – they lurked here already. Some nightmares are ancient, as old as civilization. Some are older still.
