Starboard Wine. Samuel R. Delany
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Название: Starboard Wine

Автор: Samuel R. Delany

Издательство: Ingram

Жанр: Историческая фантастика

Серия:

isbn: 9780819572943

isbn:

СКАЧАТЬ Sturgeon

       5. Science Fiction and “Literature”—or, The Conscience of the King

       6. Russ

       7. An Experimental Talk

       8. Disch, I

       9. Disch, II

       10. Dichtung und Science Fiction

       11. Three Letters to Science Fiction Studies

       1) A Letter from New York

       2) Another Letter from New York

       3) A Letter from Rome

       12. Reflections on Historical Models

       Index

      Acknowledgments

      Samuel R. Delany July 2011

      Starboard Wine, An Author’s Introduction

      These baker’s dozen disparate pieces discuss the past and the future of science fiction, those violences committed on our reading of science fiction texts by memory (and remembering) and desire (and although we have no English word re-desiring, desire itself is so closely allied to repetition that Freud could identify the two). Despite their thrusts forward and backward, some of these meditations on practice and potential take off, especially in the last third of the book, from a present position of uncharacteristic rigor—that is to say, a theoretical rigor uncharacteristic of most contemporary SF criticism, fannish or academic, formal or informal. At the same time, especially in the first half, autobiography is rampant.

      There is some reason to believe that in other areas of our universe certain constants, such as the speed of light or the direction of time, may be quite different from what they are likely to be throughout our local galaxy. Because facts result from the encounter of consciousness with landscape, a fact too far removed from the landscape that produced it often becomes problematic, if not downright suspect. The social landscape is far more variable and volatile than the physical one; and science fiction, like all aesthetic productions, is a social phenomenon: the autobiography is here to ground the rigor, not to relieve it.

      With that as prologue, let me tell a tale.

      One late autumn afternoon some years ago, as I was coming down the stone steps outside my apartment building, I glanced up 82nd Street toward Columbus Avenue. In Central Park, two blocks away, the sun had found some leaves to snag on. It was cool, but not cold enough to button my jacket.

      And walking toward me (I didn’t stop; I didn’t frown; I kept walking toward him, a bigger and bigger grin catching up my face) was a friend I hadn’t seen for six years.1

      Living in Connecticut now, he’d gotten my address from a mutual San Francisco friend; and on this, his third trip into the city, he’d come to look me up.

      As I was free for the day, and as it was the first time my friend had been in New York with someone who actually lived here, the afternoon turned into a round of Upper West Side, then Village, bars; then dinner in a downtown Indian restaurant with a pale gold Pakistani beer; at last a night trip across upper New York Bay on the Staten Island Ferry.

      At the deck rail, looking over the wrinkling waters at the heap of СКАЧАТЬ