Robin Sloan Quotes

If this sounds impressive to you, you’re over thirty.

The internet: always proving that you're not quite as special as you suspected.

He asked <...> Rosemary, why do you love books so much?
And I said, Well, I don't know <...> I suppose I love them because they're quiet, and I can take them to the park.

I have come to believe that food is history of the deepest kind. Everything we eat tells a tale of ingenuity and creation, domination and injustice-and does so more vividly than any other artifact, any other medium.

What do you seek in these shelves?

Imagination runs out. But it makes sense, right? We probably just imagine things based on what we already know, and we run out of analogies in the thirty-first century.

...I can’t stop squirming. If fidgets were Wikipedia edits, I would have completely revamped the entry on guilt by now, and translated it into five new languages.

This girl has the spark of life. This is my primary filter for new friends (girl- and otherwise) and the highest compliment I can pay. I've tried many times to figure out exactly what ignites it — what cocktail of characteristics come together in the cold, dark cosmos to form a star. I know it's mostly in the face — not just the eyes, but the brow, the cheeks, the mouth, and the micromuscles that connect them all.

Kat's micromuscles are very attractive.

I sit up straight and do the first thing a person is supposed to do in an emergency, which is send a text message.

The right book exactly, at exactly the right time.

Let me give you some advice: make friends with a millionaire when he's a friendless sixth-grader.

When you read a book, the story definitely happens inside your head. When you listen, it seems to happen in a little cloud all around it, like a fuzzy knit cap pulled down over your eyes.

Greatest among us are those who can deploy “my friend” to total strangers in a way that is not hollow, but somehow real and deeply felt; those who can make you, within seconds of first contact, believe it.

Kat bought a New York Times but couldn’t figure out how to operate it, so now she’s fiddling with her phone.

Her home is the burrow of a bibliophile hobbit -– low-ceilinged, close-walled, and brimming over with books.