To my own shame, I have become a jaded reader in recent years. By this I mean that my enthusiasm and curiosity, my drive to experience new worlds, have all been damaged by a persistent disjunct between reality and the speculative fiction I most enjoy. Is it any wonder, given the horrors of Trump's first regime, the looming threat of another, a global plague allowed to run rampant, and a billionaire-backed culture war on the rest of us? I'm more jaded about everything now. Escapism at this juncture feels like a way to temporarily pretend that everything is fine—and while there's value in taking a break from hell, it also feels dangerous. What I've found myself seeking instead are philosophies of entropy and survival—that is, fiction that addresses multifaceted decay and the psychology needed to survive it |
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