Life on the big slope was endurable, and sometimes more than just endurable, for the human spirit was a genius for making mountains out of molehills … - Brian Aldiss

Here is what I wrote about SF. If it has a familiar ring, my publishers liked it well enough to make it into a postcard for publicity purposes. 'I love SF for its surrealist verve, its loony non-reality, its piercing truths, its wit, its masked melancholy, its nose for damnation, its bunkum, its contempt for home comforts, its slewed astronomy, its xenophilia, its hip, its classlessness, its mysterious machines, its gaudy backdrops, its tragic insecurity.'
Science fiction has always seemed to me such a polyglot, an exotic mistress, a parasite, a kind of new language coined for the purpose of giving tongue to the demented twentieth century.

This was long before internal parasites had labyrinth their way into the mechanisms of eternity.

Why should you be confused just because you come from a confused civilization?