Friday, 24 September 2021



I don't know why I read old science fiction, most of the novels do not stand the passage of time. Perhaps I am drawn to the idea that the future envisaged by the author is our past. For example, I recently read one set in 1989, twenty years on from when it had been written. It read like a shopping list of the hopes of 1959. This poem reviews a different book, and discretion prevents me from naming the author. 

Book Review

the novel he wrote that summer [1967]

was powered by a single idea

fleshed out with scenes from his life [again]

as usual the future resembled yesterday

and women were confined to walk on parts

cut out characters of no importance

the casual sexism he took for granted

was the most alien aspect of the tale

but the publisher astutely realised

putting Science Fiction Classic

on the reprint’s cover was all that was needed

to sucker fools like me

I had dithered about buying it, having read other books by the author, I should have listened to myself.

Here's Cafe Tacvba in a Tiny Desk Concert.

Until next time.

No comments:

Post a Comment