Losing maturity in one’s fiction for the sake of marvels and monsters can also mean losing propriety, and that’s not always a bad thing.
I likes me some ‘Shit Blows Up’ fiction, don’t get me wrong.
Destiny can sometimes be history coming back to bite you in the arse.
So, fuck ’em, we say. Fuck the mundane of Mainstream, the elitists of Literature. We’re GENRE FICTION and proud of it, proud to wear that brand painted on the backs of our biker’s jackets.
–It’s not Sci-Fi, we insist, It’s SF.Every time you say that a Venusian Slime Boy dies, you know.
the crescent sun is high, the moon low; life is not for the faint-hearted; so why the fuck should art be?
This is the fiction that I’m referring to as rhapsody, this stitching of mimetic representation, oneiric imagery, ludic rules, allegoric morals, satiric critique and diegetic story into complex quiltings of narrative.
Fuck the epistemic modality; this is alethic modality we’re talking now, not factuality but possibility.
Soylent Brown? It ain’t people, but it comes from them.
In the ghetto of Genre, anything goes, man. When you live in the gutter it doesn’t matter if you’re filthy. In theory anyway.
Personally, I’d like to see the word genre taken out back and shot, a bullet in the back of its head, if it’s going to be so overloaded with meanings it’s just gibberish skewed to self-serving doublethink.
Fuck, if only ‘aesthetic idiom’ didn’t sound so damn poncy.
For some the label sci-fi is just a shortand for science fiction, an alternative to sf gesturing at … you know, that stuff we like.
Well, I myself, while sometimes unkempt by nights of drunkenness and debauchery, am quite convinced a man’s good character is marked by his impeccable attire.
So they watch over us like gods of old. Our patron sinners.
All prejudice presents itself as piety, propriety.