John M. Ford
John Milo "Mike" Ford was a science fiction and fantasy writer, game designer and poet.
Ford was regarded (and obituaries, tributes and memories describe him) as an extraordinarily intelligent, erudite and witty man. He was a popular contributor to several online discussions. He composed poems, often improvised, in both complicated forms and blank verse, notably Shakespearean pastiche; he also wrote pastiches and parodies of many other authors and styles.At Minicon and other science fiction conventions he would perform "Ask Dr. Mike", giving humorous answers to scientific and other questions in a lab coat before a whiteboard.
Ford passed away from natural causes in 2006 at his home in Minneapolis.
Biography source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_M._...
“The worm drives helically through the woodAnd does not know the dust left in the boreOnce made the table integral and good;And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;The names of lovers, light of other daysPerhaps you will not miss them. That's the joke.The universe winds down. That's how it's made.But memory is everything to lose;Although some of the colors have to fade,Do not believe you'll get the chance to choose.Regret, by definition, comes too late;Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.”
“Then the syncretist Ficino, sitting hunched with Lorenzo standing at his side, put all the ideas together, along with Lorenzo's new song: chariots blazing between the worlds as gods fought rebel gods, the destruction of a city -- a planet? -- by fire, beasts beyond imagining both to terrify and befriend the heroes."It needs a title," Signorina Scala said.Pulci had his mouth open, but Ficino beat him to the pun."It shall be dedicated to Isis and Mars," he said, "and we will call it Stella Martis.”
“I long for the simplicity of theatre. I want lessons learned, comeuppances delivered, people sorted out, all before your bladder gets distractingly full. That's what I want. What I know is what we all know, whether we'll admit it or not: every attempt to impose the roundness of a well-made play on reality produces a disaster. Life just isn't so, nor will it be made so.”
“Askade took the battertoast, looked at it blearily. "I can't rewire it into a death ray without some extra parts," he said, and took a bite. "Hm. Tastes okay. What's the problem?”
“Every book is three books, after all; the one the writer intended, the one the reader expected, and the one that casts its shadow when the first two meet by moonlight.”
“We're not lost. We're locationally challenged.”