Quotes About Clifford

If there's a red dwarf in Canis Major, and it isn't named Clifford, I'm going to say a swear word.

I'm writing a review of three books on feminism and science, and it's about social constructionism. So I would say I'm a social constructionist, whatever that means

I am not conscious of falling under any of those ornithological divisions.

I've often been accused of making anthropology into literature, but anthropology is also field research. Writing is central to it.

My instincts are always against people who want to fasten some sort of hegemony onto things

Clifford, except for Phoebe's more active instigation, would ordinarily have yielded to the torpor which had crept through all his modes of being, and which sluggishly counselled him to sit in his morning chair, till eventide.

The devoted sister had solemn thoughts of thrumming on its chords for Clifford's benefit, and accompanying the performance with her voice. Poor Clifford! Poor Hepzibah! Poor harpsichord!

My son, he has a film group, a bunch of film nerds that sit around and screen movies, and when they had Mary Steenburgen Night, the two movies they screened were 'Melvin And Howard' and 'Clifford.'

Many Halloweens ago, he was just a tiny red puppy. I wanted to take Clifford out trick-or-treating. But the mask and hat didn't fit. He was not a happy clown.

I tried dressing him as an angel. While I was putting my fairy costume on, he ate his halo. Then I found the perfect costume for my small red puppy. Clifford was the littlest ghost I had ever seen.

When we got home, Daddy was carving a pumpkin for our Halloween party. Clifford was a nosy little puppy. Now we had a jack-o'-lantern that barked and stuck out its tongue.

Adams chuckled. "The evenings are always nice. The Weather boys don't let it rain until later on, when everyone's asleep.

Good man, Thorne, thought Adams.

We want you to sign a petition," said Mrs. Jellicoe.

Clifford D. Simak

although myth may be romanticized and woefully short of fact, it must, by definition, have some foundation in lost happenings.

Writing is a journey with no maps, no ending, no guides (except charlatans) and often no point. Still we do it.

I consider this is really the heart of England,' said Clifford to Connie, as he sat there in the dim February sunshine. 'Do you?' she said, seating herself in her blue knitted dress, on a stump by the path. 'I do! this is the old England, the heart of it; and I intend to keep it intact.' 'Oh yes!' said Connie. But, as she said it she heard the eleven-o'clock hooters at Stacks Gate colliery. Clifford was too used to the sound to notice.

Neutronium is so dense that a chunk the size of a thimble would weigh about 100 million tons.

I've often been accused of making anthropology into literature, but anthropology is also field research. Writing is central to it.

my throat and told him that I'd have to consult with my client. "How

it's a part of the Internet, a computer network that cross-links a hundred other networks.

Obstinacy is dangerous and destructive when human actions are derailed for good cause.

The ink of any pen has no control of its writing. If you are using a pencil, don't use the eraser. It is not made for writing.