We talk of strong personalities, and they are strong, until the not-every-day when we see them as we might see one woman alone in a desert, and know that all the strength we thought we knew was only courage, only her lone song echoing among the stones; and then at last when we have understood this and made up our minds to hear the song and admire its courage and its sweetness, we wait for the next note and it does not come. The last word, with its pure tone, echoes and fades and is gone, and we realize—only then—that we do not know what it was, that we have been too intent on the melody to hear even one word. We go then to find the singer, thinking she will be standing where we last saw her. There are only bones and sand and a few faded rags.I particularly hate, though, that non-“science fiction” authors write science fiction and have their work lauded for its “vision” and “originality.” Take Cormac McCarthy's The Road. Now, I am a huge fan of McCarthy. His Blood Meridian is one of my favorite modern novels. However, The Road is at best a minor effort. Its mysterious apocalypse is a pedestrian, overused sf trope. Its sentimental theism was done to death before the Seventies were through. It's popular only because it's written by a mainstream author. McCarthy clearly had little understanding of science fiction; the readers who made it a bestseller (hi, Oprah) have probably never heard of the “post-apocalyptic” sub-genre; and, had it come out with Lois McMaster Bujold's byline it would have been shelved among the SF&F and quickly forgotten.
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posted by lazaruslong at 2:05 PM on August 18, 2009 [1 favorite]