There are few things in life as much fun as the curt dismissal of an entire genre:
Science fiction isn’t all Star Trek and spaceships but it is almost completely devoid of stylists, writers whose mastery of poetic language lends their works an enduring quality. It is really not that daring to suggest that the typical sci fi devotee is a socially awkward white male who prizes laborious detail of setting over literary quality. Hence the dominance of writers like Isaac Asimov and Frank Herbert and William Gibson, in whose entire output one will find not a single stirring passage or notable use of metaphor. And yet their fans must number in the millions.
It is indeed not that daring, but that’s as far as I’ll go with it. I have to admire, though, the sheer pluck of someone who can read the complete oeuvre of three fairly prolific writers while presumably being bored throughout the entire exercise. (I couldn’t take that much of Herbert myself.)
Of course, there’s always the chance that our critic is more interested in demonstrating how superior he is to those SF partisans, inasmuch as he’s read The Vicar of Wakefield, but that couldn’t be it, could it?
And God forbid women should read this stuff:
My suspicions about any woman who announced a love of science fiction would be, in order:
- Dumpy looking
- Socially maladept
- Resigned to grabbing the low hanging fruit of mating material
Encountering a truly good looking woman who enthuses about this male-oriented dreary genre trash would certainly cause me to raise an eyebrow.
Is that the problem? It’s “male-oriented”? Horrors! Bring on the romances!
(Via Kathy Shaidle, who presumably had her reasons.)