People are getting hostile. They want equality. Oops, no, they want power. The people, you know, the people, the multitudes, all those people who live like shit… the people. The people who don’t read this, because they are busy working their asses off to keep living. Time to stop giving them lip-service, like I am doing here, because they will rise.
You know what Napoleon said? People will fight harder for their interests than for their rights. How right he was. It’s a terrible thing, but it is a fact supported by history. He used this fact to manipulate the entire european continent.
So, look at the interests of the people now, and look at what is going on in the world. How long can it go on like this? How long can people in power slow the bus?
Long claws they may have, but they can’t hold on forever. Blue Arse from The Mekons.
That feeling. That sublime feeling. You talked about it, because you thought you’d found someone you could talk to. Really. Talk. To. It was a mistake: to talk about it. You talked too much. You wrote too much. You broke it across your knee until all the magic was gone. If only you had known to shut the fuck up. Christ, keep your big trap shut, can’t you? No, you can’t.
Actually, you thought you were keeping it alive. You tried to sustain the sublime by evoking it, by conjuring it again and again with your beautiful little words. You danced around it like some fucking shaman. Yeah baby, yeah baby, you’re mine, yeah baby, you’re mine, c’mon, be mine, oh yeah.
How could you be such a fool? How could you believe that anyone you love could be swayed by such nonsense? Desperation led you to it, and you simply weren’t smart enough to see the trap. You flogged the idea across the desert until it was dead, you fool! The most beautiful thing in the world, and you tickled it, tickled it again and again, until it had laughed its last laugh. And that was it.
As if love was something finite, like a bottle of water that you drink until it’s empty. You simply couldn’t believe that. You still can’t… but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe.
What if… what if I had to take a piss, no matter what. Perhaps time is like a river. You can throw a pebble in, and you’ll cause a ripple, but the main current goes on. So, no matter what I do, I am going to have to go to the toilet. Excuse me, I’ll, uh… I’ll be right back. So, where was I? Ah, piss, that is to say, urine. I don’t want to offend anyone here, harharhaaardiharhar (Jackie Gleason greets you from the grave).
All those little rivulets of urine I’ve pissed over the years have become a mighty river of time. There is no way anyone can stop it, least of all myself. Or could I? Could I simply say, one fine day, I shall never piss again? My bladder would burst, after a while, and I would cease to be. Would that stop time?
Christ, what makes me piss so much? The coffee, the beer, the rum? Sure as hell ain’t water. But I digress, as so often. Time. That was the subject in question. Damned if I can remember where I heard that, but time is what keeps everything from happening at once.
Is that true? What is time… a concept invented to order the incessant procession of sameness we all face from day to day. Time is a matter of perspection, a matter of scale. It’s subjective. I have no time, I have all the time in the world… there is in fact no difference between these two statements. The only thing that remains is inevitability. Things happen, and in the final analysis it doesn’t matter when. They will happen, all those things.
Walking along, on and on. Tottering on the razor’s edge, staggering, step after wavering step, falling down, down… no matter, you’re not going to give up now. Not ever. It’s your particular way to stagger. You’ll stand the pain, if you should fall on the razor’s edge. You’ll get cut, like a hundred times before, but wotthehell.
Cut to the bone, but you have to stand up. You have to show the world you can take the pain. Indomitable will, and so on. You talk to your drunken soul: you goin’ to give up now, you lazy little cunt? Down to the last minute, down to the last second, down to the bitter fucking end: keep your head up. Walk proud.
To me, writing science fiction is like driving a car I like the look and feel of. I really, really like this car, man. It has these super-charged computer controlled motors, you see, and the seats are so comfortable, you feel like you’re a part of the machine. The displays are totally futuristic, all in damped glowing colors, and a thousand little buttons at your fingertips… it’s all so psychedelic I haven’t yet fully grasped it. But what’s actually important is driving, getting somewhere, or, in other words, telling a story. In the end I don’t really give a fuck if it’s a Ferrari or a Hyundai.
Most good books, from my point of view, don’t fit a single particular genre. If anything, they start a new genre because they are so good. Mostly they are a mixture of genres, a new synthesis.
In any case, I love a good story. It’s the story that counts, and of course the writing style, but not the genre. Am I making myself clear here, you know, not the genre…? So try reading a couple books outside your usual genre. If you read sci-fi, try Neville Shute for a change. If you’re a hardcore horror fan, start reading some –I am tempted to say Dostoyevsky here– uhm… Patrick O’Brian. Okay, maybe I am insane for suggesting such divergent things, but, try my car.