Hyperion (Hyperion Cantos Book 1)

On Old Earth they had a word for what I was – quisling.

Thus, on Heaven’s Gate, as I dredged bottom scum from the slop canals under the red gaze of Vega Primo or crawled on hands and knees through stalactites and stalagmites of rebreather bacteria in the station’s labyrinthine lungpipes, I became a poet. All I lacked were the words.

occasionally making a comment with the idle arrogance common to such nobodies who have just come into a small bit of power.

an epic tour de force in an age of mediocre farce.

I saw no reason to acknowledge an acknowledgment of the obvious.

My home has thirty-eight rooms on thirty-six worlds.

Belief in one’s identity as a poet or writer prior to the acid test of publication is as naive and harmless as the youthful belief in one’s immortality . . . and the inevitable disillusionment is just as painful.

age five showed the most reliable indicators of true giftedness in a young person: structured curiosity, empathy for others, compassion, and a fierce sense of fair play.

life of a poet lies not merely in the finite language-dance of expression but in the nearly infinite combinations of perception and memory combined with the sensitivity to what is perceived and remembered.