Hal Duncan

So, fuck __m, we say. Fuck the mundane of Mainstream, the elitists of Literature. We__e GENRE FICTION and proud of it, proud to wear that brand painted on the backs of our biker__ jackets.

Destiny can sometimes be history coming back to bite you in the arse.

See, you have the choice we didn__. You wanna think about it though, you do, before you decide to throw your lot in with us. Cause it__ not just about living in society__ stitches, you know, the bits in between, the squats and secret places. It__ about being Fixed.

I likes me some __hit Blows Up_ fiction, don__ get me wrong.

Losing maturity in one__ fiction for the sake of marvels and monsters can also mean losing propriety, and that__ not always a bad thing.

All prejudice presents itself as piety, propriety.

So they watch over us like gods of old. Our patron sinners.

In that time while he was still aware, which was the worse, I wonder: the agony of his physical torture or the horror of their utter hatred, of their moral certainty that he was so beyond the bounds of what they could accept that he deserved not just a death but one of such brutality, such inhumanity, as would make the seraphs who burned Sodom bow their heads in cold respect? What is it like, I wonder, to learn the full capacity of hatred in a lesson hammered home with bone broken on wood and skin ripped on barbed wire?

Well, I myself, while sometimes unkempt by nights of drunkenness and debauchery, am quite convinced a man__ good character is marked by his impeccable attire.

This is the fiction that I__ 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, if only __esthetic idiom_ didn__ sound so damn poncy.

The spelunkers of speculative fiction mining phosphorescent filth from the bowels of the city of New Sodom, the Sci-Fi freaks scraping kipple and back from the bins of decades-old shit sandwiches out back, composting it to grow shrooms, we have built this thing to take its

_ No SF novel ever won the Booker, growls a prowling clansman on his way into the SF Café.The librarian swings a shotgun from inside her longcoat, blasts the bullshit axiom from the air. Screw the Booker, she thinks. She__ rather have a hookah.

__t__ not Sci-Fi, we insist, It__ SF.Every time you say that a Venusian Slime Boy dies, you know.

Fuck the epistemic modality; this is alethic modality we__e talking now, not factuality but possibility.

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.

the crescent sun is high, the moon low; life is not for the faint-hearted; so why the fuck should art be?

Personally, I__ like to see the word genre taken out back and shot, a bullet in the back of its head, if it__ going to be so overloaded with meanings it__ just gibberish skewed to self-serving doublethink.