Forget scientists. The next space launch we should send up painters, poets and musicians. I’d be more interested in what they discover than anything that takes place in a test tube.

Language is a virus from outer space.

Then they wondered if there were men in the stars. Why not? And as creation is harmonious, the inhabitants of Sirius ought to be huge, those of Mars middle-sized, those of Venus very small. Unless it is the same everywhere. There are businessmen, police up there; people trade, fight, dethrone their kings.
Some shooting stars suddenly slid past, describing a course in the sky like the parabola of a monstrous rocket.
‘My Word,’ said Bouvard, ‘look at those worlds disappearing.’
Pecuchet replied: ‘If our world in its turn danced about, the citizens of the stars would be no more impressed than we are now. Ideas like that are rather humbling.’
‘What is the point of it all?’
‘Perhaps there isn’t a point.’
‘Yet…’ and Pecuchet repeated the word two or three times, without finding anything more to say.

Tourists who go to outer space should stay out there.

I don't have to go into outer space to write about an astronaut.

The late-afternoon sky, in Paul's peripheral vision, panoramic and mostly unobstructed, appeared rural or suburban, more indicative of forests and fields and lakes—of nature's vast connections, through the air and the soil, to more of itself—than of outer space, which was mostly what Paul thought of when beneath an urban sky, even in daytime, especially in Manhattan, between certain buildings, framing sunless zones of upper atmosphere, as if inviting space down to deoxygenate a city block.