Best 1974 quotes in «science fiction quotes» category

Don't go getting offended my friend, I have much worse things to say to you.-Ad'Dam, Journey from Atremes

Don't needlessly draw attention to yourself. If you're twerking on the beach, a circling pteracuda could mistake you for a wounded animal.

Don't pick up hitchhikers!"- D. Adams

Don’t talk. Don’t sputter out a solitary protest or it will be your last. Take me to them.” “Who the f**k are you?” He palmed the man’s forehead and slammed his skull against the wall. “I said don’t talk, and you want to do as I say. I’m the one thing monsters like you and your kind fear. I’m what haunts your nightmares and hunts you in the darkness.

Doubt is what keeps the heart and mind of every man alive. It 's what makes us think twice.

Do we not each dream of dreams? Do we not dance on the notes of lost memories? Then are we not each dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday, since dreams play when time is askew? Are we not all adrift in the constant sea of trial and when all is done, do we not all yearn for ships to carry us home?

Do we exist because others perceive our existence, or is, indeed, our own affirmation enough?

Do you dream about time travel or do you time travel while you dream? #AzariasTor

Do you know what an Asterion is?” “Do you?” Nika caught herself before she flinched, frowned, gasped or gave any other outward sign of surprise, but it was definitely not the response she’d anticipated. “Explain your answer.” “If you were capable of comprehending my explanation, my answer would no longer be needed. I will instead give you the answer you were expecting: Asterions are a species of hybrid synthetic-organic beings of moderate sapience who practice self-directed evolution.” Moderate sapience? She bit back a tart retort; a diplomat never got offended or angry unless they intended to do so.

Do you love me?” His voice rang flat in his own ears, deadened and weighted with the recognition there was only one chance, and a fool’s chance at that

Draden. Who knew there were men like him in the world? He made it exciting to wake up in the morning. She looked forward to the day. To their shared laughter. Their conversations. The intense attraction between them. Who wouldn't fall in love with him?

Draden was hers. The one. The only. She didn't know how she knew it, but she did know that nothing in her life was truer.

Draden didn't move, staying as still as any predator with his gaze fixed on his prey. No muscle moved.

Draden stepped back and saluted his friend and commanding officer. [...] Its been an honor to serve with you, sir. Their GhostWalker unit didnt stand on formality as a rule.[...]He felt it was important for Joe Spagnola to know how he felt about the man. Joe looked stricken, but his back was ramrod stiff. "Fight, Draden.[...]

Draden drank in his surroundings with both appreciation and sorrow. The beautiful path led to a village that should have been thriving. Instead, it was now a path to certain death.

Dreams deny her the freedom she truly seeks. Darkness consumes. Leg muscles burn. She runs away, even while lost in the paradise of sleep. Gravity is a crushing force bearing down on her chest, shattering wings and refusing her flight. A whisper in her mind. You don’t belong here.

Drop. Your weapon. And. Come quietly,” said a robotic voice. “Kiss. My ass,” said Zita, mocking the robot’s tone.

During a late evening briefing, Jimmy listened as Harford told the group they would be teleporting. Harford’s briefing didn’t extend beyond saying the men might experience nausea, mild dizziness, and garbled sounds, and he couldn’t tell them more because each person’s experience of teleportation was unique. At last, Jimmy would find out what it was like, though the recent conversation with Vicar played on his mind. He wanted the answer to the one question that nagged him, but in the end, he didn’t ask how many men had died during teleportation. He reasoned that Harford wouldn’t tell him.

Duty over fear.

Don’t go near that elevator—that’s just what they want us to do…trap us in a steel box and take us down to the basement!” − Raoul Duke, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas “Please, please I don’t want my soul tethered to the Net, my mind impregnated by the Data Stream, or my body enslaved by the Grid. I am a Homo Sapiens, dammit, and I can be a Trog and live in the soup if I want to!” − Pagan Paul

Don't just discover . . . Encounter!

Dwell in the past, worry about the future and find misery in the present.

Dye a specsuit any color other than the original red, and any stalker would put down five hundred for it without batting an eyelash” “It’s light, comfortable, not too tight, and you don’t sweat in it from the heat. You can go right through a fire in this thing, and no gas will penetrate it. It’s even bulletproof, they say. Of course, fire toxic gas, and bullets -these are only Earth perils. The Zone doesn't have those; in the Zone you have other worries.

Each government will eventually need to feed on each other when they have sucked their populations dry. And in so doing, will destroy the world one war, one treaty, one negotiation at a time.

Each time Olan Chapman comes to life, his anti-quarks remain on the far side of the Time Wall. After his life cycle ends, his quarks collapse back to these roots, and – presto – America's most wanted man is ready for his next adventure.

E avevo OASIS. La mia vita non era poi così male. O almeno è quello che continuavo a ripetermi, nel vano tentativo di alleviare la solitudine in cui mi ero trovato a vivere.

Either I’ve got a wart on my nose they find curious, or I’ve grown a tail, Albie Merani muttered to himself. Just then he thought. I’d better get a move on, got work to do. He hurried across to some stairs, heading down deeper into station, then followed the signs to the pod station.

Eleanor had heard talk of the rebellion that existed inside the city of Constance before. Most of the information she gathered was considered an old fairy tale by the general public. There were a few stories here and there about people angered by their present living conditions, who had demanded that the center of Constance be held responsible for it. However, information was never passed between the five different sectors. Over the years the tales of the rebellion had become children’s bedtime stories, and people did not take them seriously.

El misterio de la vida no es problema que hay que resolver, sino una realidad que hay que experimentar.

El poder se basa en inflingir dolor y humillación. El poder consiste en hacer pedazos el espíritu humano y darle la forma que elijamos.

Elijah blinked in dazzling sunlight and took a deep breath. The sweet-pepper scent of meadow grass told him immediately where he was. Winded, he skidded to a halt as the portal spat him out. Above him stretched skies of cornflower blue, dotted with threadbare white clouds sailing over like cotton galleons on the summer breeze.

El universo es un bosque oscuro. Cada civilización es un cazador armado que recorre el bosque como un fantasma, apartando delicadamente las ramas que le impiden el paso, intentando moverse sin emitir sonido. Incluso respira con mucho cuidado. El cazador debe ser precavido, porque el bosque está lleno de otros cazadores secretos como él. Si da con otra forma de vida, otro cazador, un ángel, o un demonio, un infante delicado o un anciano tambaleante, un hada o un semidiós, solo tiene una opción: Abrir fuego y eliminarlo. En este bosque, el infierno son los otros. La amenaza eterna de que cualquier vida que revele su existencia será exterminada con rapidez. Esa es la imagen de las civilizaciones cósmicas. Es la explicación de la paradoja de Ferm

Enemy?’ Horus laughed. ‘When did they become the enemy? They are men like us.’ He glared up at the night sky, threw back his head and screamed a curse at the stars. Then his voice fell to a whisper. Loken was close enough to hear his words. ‘Why have you tasked me with this, father? Why have you forsaken me? Why? It is too hard. It is too much. Why did you leave me to do this on my own?

Eric, you need to look at the whole picture," the PM said. "You look at the jobless as a huge pile of scrap and you're looking for what can be recycled. That's good. That's your job. But what you don't realise is that this pile of scrap itself serves a purpose. I need my zeros, Eric. They put fear in people; fear of crime and terrorism. They are a stark reminder to the stakeholders that what they despise today, they may end up joining tomorrow. It keeps them obedient. Remember that!

Essentially, in the model of strange fiction based in shifts in narrative modality, we are reversing the polarity, treating those ‘contents’ (errata, nova and chimera) as the end results of a literary technique of estrangement, the effects of strangeness rather than the cause. These quirks – dragons, spaceships, magic, FTL – are not things which, in and of themselves, make fiction strange. Rather they are the epiphenomena of an underlying process of semiosis, figurae generated and combined to create meaning, gaining their symbolic power by their application. Genre is not a question of which trove of tropes one uses, of a characteristic set of quirks; rather it is a quality emergent from the underlying dynamics of modalities, the nature of the impossibilities and our affective responses to them – the uncertainties and ethical imperatives too, if we include epistemic and deontic quirks in our scope along with the alethic and boilomaic.

Esa era la mayor sutileza: inducir conscientemente a la inconsciencia, y luego, una vez más, volverse inconsciente del acto de hipnosis que acababas de realizar. Incluso la comprensión del término , implicaba el uso del doblepiensa.

Eternity is a lie and Chiron was the messenger.

Even a feeble-minded man wants to be like other men. A child may not know how to feed itself, or what to eat, yet it knows hunger.

Even if you’re given all you desire, without freedom, you’re in a prison. He’d not elect to give up his freedom.

Even if such beauty wasn't meant to be in a world so fallen as ours, that didn't take away from its beauty. It only made it more beautiful.

Even in forgetting there is an aspect of recollection, a faded few moments of wispy consciousness clung like webs in high-vaulted chambers, moving ever so lightly with the draft.

Evening had turned the sky a deep persimmon. The remaining sunlight enriched the colors of the ubiquitous flowers and foliage to even greater vibrancy, as if the saturation filter had been notched up several levels. Caleb noted all this in passing as he strode deliberately forward. He didn’t know how he was going to do this, only that he had to make the attempt.

Eventually we’ll all be living comfortably and provided for, even if caged like a poor zoo animal.

Even when the world throws it worst and then turns in its back, there is still always hope

Ever since I could remember, She was all that mattered.

Every moment of a science fiction story must represent the triumph of writing over worldbuilding. Worldbuilding is dull. Worldbuilding literalises the urge to invent. Worldbuilding gives an unnecessary permission for acts of writing (indeed, for acts of reading). Worldbuilding numbs the reader’s ability to fulfil their part of the bargain, because it believes that it has to do everything around here if anything is going to get done. Above all, worldbuilding is not technically necessary. It is the great clomping foot of nerdism. It is the attempt to exhaustively survey a place that isn’t there. A good writer would never try to do that, even with a place that is there. It isn’t possible, & if it was the results wouldn’t be readable: they would constitute not a book but the biggest library ever built, a hallowed place of dedication & lifelong study. This gives us a clue to the psychological type of the worldbuilder & the worldbuilder’s victim, & makes us very afraid.

Everyone has got their own ideas and they push them and say to hell with everyone else. That's the history of the human race. It got us on top, only now it is pushing us off. The thing is that people will put up with any kind of discomfort, and dying babies, and old age at thirty as long as it has always been that way. Try to get them to change and they fight you, even while they're dying, saying it was good enough for grandpa so it's good enough for me. Bango, dead.

Everyone pays lip service to world peace. They use it as a pretty answer to pointless questions, to make themselves sound good.

Everyone will be tracked, cradle to grave, with no possibility of escape.

Dust is not a constant. There’s not a fixed quantity that has always been the same. Conscious beings make Dust—they renew it all the time, by thinking and feeling and reflecting, by gaining wisdom and passing it on. And if you help everyone else in your worlds to do that, by helping them to learn and understand about themselves and each other and the way everything works, and by showing them how to be kind instead of cruel, and patient instead of hasty, and cheerful instead of surly, and above all how to keep their minds open and free and curious…Then they will renew enough to replace what is lost through one window. So there could be one left open.