Time moves in one direction, memory in another.

Cyberspace. A consensual hallucination experienced daily by billions of legitimate operators, in every nation, by children being taught mathematical concepts.

The future has already arrived. It's just not evenly distributed yet.

Why shouldn't we give our teachers a license to obtain software, all software, any software, for nothing? Does anyone demand a licensing fee, each time a child is taught the alphabet?

For years I have been mourning and not for my dead, it is for this boy for whatever corner in my heart died when his childhood slid out of my arms.

And, for an instant, she stared directly into those soft blue eyes and knew, with an instinctive mammalian certainty, that the exceedingly rich were no longer even remotely human.

It's impossible to move, to live, to operate at any level without leaving traces, bits, seemingly meaningless fragments of personal information.

Dreaming in public is an important part of our job description, as science writers, but there are bad dreams as well as good dreams. We're dreamers, you see, but we're also realists, of a sort.

Generation X is dead. It has come to mean anyone aged 13 to 55 years old.

Language is to the mind more than light is to the eye.

The 'Net is a waste of time, and that's exactly what's right about it.

I think that technologies are morally neutral until we apply them. It's only when we use them for good or for evil that they become good or evil.

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead station.

I don't have to write about the future. For most people, the present is enough like the future to be pretty scary.

The box was a universe, a poem, frozen on the boundaries of human experience.

A graphic representation of data abstracted from the banks of every computer in the human system. Unthinkable complexity. Lines of light ranged in the nonspace of the mind, clusters and constellations of data. Like city lights, receding.