Funny how circumstances help out. I spent a weekend sick in bed, and got to read Borges's Labyrinths, Kuttner's The Last Mimzy and Gaiman's Fragile Things. Three eras of science fiction/fantasy stories, linked by the unending ability of the authors to imagine how things could be different. It was almost like gorging on chocolate. I was in a reverie.
The marigold wonders nervously:
Can the real future be as fun as reading about it is?
I am constantly annoyed to find that Neil Gaiman is one of my favourite writers.
About this, the marigold wonders nervously:
Why does it bother me?