I think I'm undergoing a Lyra-2-type paranoia onslaught, but I'll be okay again in a minute. - Brian Aldiss

He had the settled expression of a certain kind of peasant—the kind that accepts, with protest but without malice, the vagaries of life. It is the gift life sends to compensate for the lack of a high I.Q.

Most of my poetry lies beyond the SF field, yet here I am corralled into 'SF poetry' as part of this poetry weekend. Of course, some might say, 'you've made your own bed — now you must lie in it!' But, while fully accepting that dictum, I'm not yet quite prepared to lie down...

She was sceptical about the painting when it was finished. 'It's nice. But it's not quite like the real thing.'
'But what would be the point of it being exactly like the real thing?'
The next day, he painted the same corner of the room as previously. Bea's response was as before.
He was amused. He painted the corner of the room over and over. She was never entirely satisfied.
When he had produced his hundredth canvas, she kissed him tenderly, suggesting he gave up. 'You'll never be a success...