Going into the new year, I’ve decided, more than ever, that as a reader I could give a crap about core genre and genre classifications. I find it more and more alien and odd that someone’s taste in fiction could be determined by whether or not there’s a dragon in it or magic or whether it’s set in the future or not. I’m reading a novel called I Hotel right now, set in 1970s San Francisco, that has more interesting things to say about our present and future than any genre novel I’ve read in the past five years. Same could go for the epic novel 2666.
Further, there are many fiction traditions from other countries that honor or emphasize realism or surrealism over fabulism, and I’m not so much interested in seeking out world SF in such cases as in exploring what’s on offer.
I think this is another way of saying that, if by the end of 2011, I’m an expert on the genre fiction published in this year…somebody shoot me. In the mix, yes, but not the majority of material read. Nothing against it, but I need to focus elsewhere for awhile.
Your Curmudgeonly Grandpa
PS Stay the hell off the lawn!
What in the hell, Jeff? What in the hell?
Get off my back.
You’re still going to be doing Amazon book blog entries on SF/F and a NYTBR column and these ongoing weirdies triangulation reviews with Paul and Larry and teaching at Shared Worlds.
So. I can still read *other* stuff.
Good luck with that. Idiot.
Get off my back!
Vamos! To the dog races!
No. Seriously. Get off my back. You’re hurting me.
Oh. Okay. Sorry.