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Oct. 5th, 2004 06:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iceinyourmusicThis morning, I woke up certain that I should be a Timbertone shipper from now on. But the moment passed.
Got done with The Curse of Chalion around 00:26 last night; also, have been dabbling with the beginnings of Cherryh's Foreigner (a book which has traveled with me half-way across the world and been misplaced and found again more times than I can count; there's a story there, but once again it's one of those stories that aren't really all that interesting). And I did like The Curse well enough, but Foreigner keeps going absolutely nowhere - inexplicably, the human-likeness of the aliens in it is turning into an insurmountable obstacle. "Why are they so like people?" I want to shout and beat up the book. "If you don't promise to give me a full explanation before the ride is over, I will throw you out the window." (It's not like I ever asked Star Trek: The Next Generation about that. And, oh, does anyone even remember how incredibly bad the early Star Trek: The Next Generation eps were? As a by-the-way, I mean.)
In other words, what is wrong with me? I've been sitting here (pretty much ever since I got back from class) and trying to think of a single SF book (in the narrow definition of the genre) I really care about, and nothing, nothing, nothing. Except Bradbury when I was fourteen or so, maybe, if that counts. ETA: Léourier's Peilipuu (L'arbre miroir) when I was nine or so OMG. Books I've enjoyed, yes, books I've really enjoyed, even - but anything that would have made an impact? Nuh. Questions that follow:
Have I not been reading the right books?
Am I conditioned by Culture to overlook the Literary Merits of SF?
Am I failing to get something fundamental about SF?
Or am I just Not That Into it? Is such a sweeping statement even possible to make?
(Also, where have I wasted my six+ yrs @ the uni when my understanding of these things is still @ secondary school level, kthxbai.)
Yet, this much I know: the Timberlake is still the prettiest boy in all the world.
As you were.
Got done with The Curse of Chalion around 00:26 last night; also, have been dabbling with the beginnings of Cherryh's Foreigner (a book which has traveled with me half-way across the world and been misplaced and found again more times than I can count; there's a story there, but once again it's one of those stories that aren't really all that interesting). And I did like The Curse well enough, but Foreigner keeps going absolutely nowhere - inexplicably, the human-likeness of the aliens in it is turning into an insurmountable obstacle. "Why are they so like people?" I want to shout and beat up the book. "If you don't promise to give me a full explanation before the ride is over, I will throw you out the window." (It's not like I ever asked Star Trek: The Next Generation about that. And, oh, does anyone even remember how incredibly bad the early Star Trek: The Next Generation eps were? As a by-the-way, I mean.)
In other words, what is wrong with me? I've been sitting here (pretty much ever since I got back from class) and trying to think of a single SF book (in the narrow definition of the genre) I really care about, and nothing, nothing, nothing. Except Bradbury when I was fourteen or so, maybe, if that counts. ETA: Léourier's Peilipuu (L'arbre miroir) when I was nine or so OMG. Books I've enjoyed, yes, books I've really enjoyed, even - but anything that would have made an impact? Nuh. Questions that follow:
Have I not been reading the right books?
Am I conditioned by Culture to overlook the Literary Merits of SF?
Am I failing to get something fundamental about SF?
Or am I just Not That Into it? Is such a sweeping statement even possible to make?
(Also, where have I wasted my six+ yrs @ the uni when my understanding of these things is still @ secondary school level, kthxbai.)
Yet, this much I know: the Timberlake is still the prettiest boy in all the world.
As you were.
