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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave The exoneration of the mass. No one voice is to blame. But his voice was there. - Quote by Ian McDonald

The exoneration of the mass. No one voice is to blame. But his voice was there.

Ian McDonald
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I realised that the moon was not a safe place. It knew a thousand ways to kill you if you were stupid, if you were careless, if you were lazy, but the real danger was the people around you. The moon was not a world, it was a submarine. Outside was death. I would be sealed in with these people. There was no law, no justice: there was only management. The moon was the frontier, but it was the frontier to nothing. There was nowhere to run.
Ian McDonald
The geek of the Earth are a tribe and they are mighty.
Ian McDonald
We were young and thought we were invincible and we threw ourselves into the gears of history and it ground us up.
Ian McDonald
Fake it may be, lies and deceptions, but this is the world in which we find ourselves, and here we must make our little lives.
Ian McDonald
It's the superhero problem . . . .Superpowers make everything personal. Batman versus Joker. Fantastic Four versus Galactus. The Big G might be the Devourer of Worlds, but in the end he's just a dude. Beat him and the problem goes away. But the real problems aren't like that. You can't solve them by hitting them. The real supervillains. . . . were people in suits who met in rooms and decided things. Destroy one and another would take her place
Ian McDonald
This was defeat. This was failure; a quiet, ashen world. True humility and obedience, where the knee is bowed to the inevitable, the ring is kissed without pride or restraint.
Ian McDonald
The time is short and the hills is dark and I's got miles to go before I sleeps. Is is no easy road.
Ian McDonald
A CITY IS AS much a state of mind as a place—a set of perceptions of place. On the last train home to Mullaghbrack or Gortyfarnham or half a hundred other BallyBogMans, two farmers fall to reviewing their experiences of the big city. One has walked the streets and avenues and come away with memories of glistening steeples and dreaming spires, monuments to men of bearing and import, Palladian porticos and grand civic cupolas, pillars, piers, and palisades, and the air full of singing birds. The other has walked the same streets, yet his memories are of grey brick tenements shouldering against each other like nervous thugs; cracked fanlights, windows boarded over with card, baby carriages full of coal or potatoes, tramps in doorways, cabbage leaves underfoot, the perfume of urine and porter, pressing people with voices like flatirons. They might have visited cities continents apart, but it is the same city.
Ian McDonald
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