Jack Vance

Jaro, my dear, there is no mystery about violence. It is the reflexive act of brutes, boors and moral defectives.

I may be called upon to address the company. No one will listen, of course, which is just as well, since I have nothing to say.

They meant no harm, of course; they wanted only that he be like themselves, which was the prerogative of all parents.

He adjudicated the case in a manner I still find perplexing, but which must have been equitable, since it pleased no one.

The mind was a marvellous instrument, thought Shimrod; when left to wander untended, it often arrived at curious destinations.

Sacerdotal, religious or priest-dominated societies are like organisms with a cancer.

One thing was certain: when someone searched into secret places, he often came up with things he would rather not have found.

Althea cried out in dismay: “Is that what you believe?”

“In the absence of evidence I believe nothing,” said Dr. Fiorio.

“You make very narrow distinctions.”

“Of course! That is the nature of clear thinking.”

I have transcended that phase in my intellectual growth where I discover humour in simple freakishness. What exists is real; therefore it is tragic, since wherever lives must die. Only fantasy, the vapours rising from sheer nonsense, can now excite my laughter.

“If ambush I must, then ambush I will,” Aillas muttered to himself. “A fig for chivalry, at least until the war is won.”

“Are you yourself a Christian?”

The young man made a negative sign. “The concepts of religion baffle me.”

“This inscrutability is perhaps not unintentional,” said the ex-priest. “It gives endless employment to dialecticians who otherwise might become public charges or, at very worst, swindlers and tricksters.”