Fiction is a lie that tells us true things, over and over.

-Neil Gaiman, Introduction to Fahrenheit 451

Have I waxed poetic about the value of speculative fiction –and indeed, all kinds of fiction– already? How it parades the persevering nature of humanity, how our ideas and behavior transcend our universe, our setting, our limitations! Have I written of the transposable quality of “being human”, that through panopticons and fantasies and vampiric nations we endure?

We question, we rebel. Aliens and fugitives and space cowboys, all the same. We fall in love and in fear; we are never quiet. We are a story to be told regardless of the context, and the story is almost always familiar, because it is ours.

I haven’t? A blog post for another day, then.


Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 is an interesting read, though the style takes some getting used to. There is some merit to books.

What is the anti-intellectual? Is it us, the now, the media? Who knows.

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