Charles Stross Quotes

Why are you trying to shoot that cat?"
"Because—" I squeeze off another shot "—it's possessed!"...
Mo turns and looks at me harshly. "That looked just like a perfectly ordinary cat to me. If you've—"
"It was possessed by the animation nexus behind JENNIFER MORGUE Two!" I gabble. "The clue—he saw a laser dot and dodged—"

My stomach flip-flops. No electronics? That’s heavy. In fact it’s more than heavy: to compute is to be, and all that. I don’t mind going without clothes, but being without a microprocessor is truly stripping down. It’s like asking a sorcerer to surrender his magic wand, or a politician to forswear his lies.

Well, now is the time to peel back the foreskin of misconception and apply the wire brush of enlightenment to this mass of sticky half-truths and lies. The truth hurts, but not as much as the consequences of willful ignorance.

He's an artist," she said calmly. "I've dealt with the type before, and recently. Like the bad guy said, never give an artist a Browning; they're some of the most dangerous folks you can meet. The Festival fringe—shit! Artists almost always want an audience, the spectacle of destruction."

We’re living through the end times, but not in any Biblical sense—the religions of the book have got their eschatology laughably wrong.

Of course, the trouble with following occult texts blindly is that there is no guarantee that the thing the ritual summons is what it says on the label."
"But they're Christians. If you want to get them to raise something from the dungeon dimensions, of course you tell them it's Jesus Christ. I mean, who else would they enthusiastically dive into necromantic demonology on behalf of?"

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sane employee in possession of his wits must be in want of a good manager.

Can I remember— “I remember lots,” I say. How much of what I remember is true is another matter.

He’s been off-line for the best part of six hours and is getting a panicky butterfly stomach at the idea of not being in touch with everything that’s happened in the last twenty kiloseconds.

Along the way she’d acquired a powerful conviction that history was a series of accidents—God was either absent or playing a very elaborate practical joke (the Eschaton didn’t count, having explicitly denied that it was a deity)—and that the seeds of evil usually germinated in the footprints of people who knew how everybody else ought to behave and felt the need to tell them so.