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More of the Same

Every year, more or less the end of December, newspapers often make lists of the best of the year. And, of course, this practice includes the best books. I confess that I read these lists with morbid curiosity. Not much to see the number of writers who do not know anything at all, but also noted that fantastic literature is often totally absent from these lists. With its well-known exceptions, but in general, it is often done very little attention. Not so with the thriller, which always falls on a title, something that has always seemed peculiar, to deny.
This year, the Sunday newspaper "El Mundo" decided to loop the loop and get the best of the decade. There is nothing, condensed 10 years of literature in 100 books. The jury was composed of ten writers, journalists, critics, publishers and booksellers and their results are as questionable as expected. Only 10 books have won more than one vote, which means the other 90 were chosen solely by an individual. This can only be defined in one way: dispersion. Published much and, perhaps, apparently very good (or at least that readers love us, which is not the same which is good) and no one is able to reach a clear consensus on who deserves to be part of a course fee.
This reality is what has always made me apologize for that fantastic literature is conspicuous by its absence in such lists. People of a certain generation (mine, not going further) was raised within the paradigm of good books or were unrealistic or were not good. Of course many of us rebel against that idea but at the cost of going through eccentric or just stupid. And that lasted for many years, too.
It is now very fashionable to say that was good Stanislaw Lem and take "Solaris" it up every few minutes. But when I read the 80 newspaper no one seemed to remember the good of Poland, and that that that was alive. That ballast
justifies the people of a certain age (which, today, form the core of critics, writers and publishers of some renown and, as it somehow, power) stubbornly continue to ignore everything that does not smell pure and simple manners.
Fortunately, things are changing, for example, when Lem died was pleased to see such a galaxy of young writers claim him without complexes. And these changes will start scoring well on these lists.
And so, the book number one, that is, the best of the decade up to "The Feast of the Goat" by Mario Vargas Llosa, the two "Your Face Tomorrow by Javier Marias and the three to" The Road "by Cormac McCarthy. So science fiction has a more than honorable bronze medal. Not bad, not bad. Honestly, I never live this moment. As I said in my previous post, the times are changing a lot.
The rest of the top ten most fantasy literature does not include (unless "Brooklyn Follies" by Paul Auster, in 9 th place, including in the field, which can not claim that I have not read the book) but if we look the other 90 titles still appear some surprises, like names, Palahniuk ("Human Error"), Murakami (Kafka on the Shore "," Blind Willow Sleeping Woman "), Houellebecq (The Possibility of an Island"), Ishiguro ( "I never give up"), Cristina Fernández Cubas ("poor relatives of the devil") and Carrere ("I'm alive and you are dead").
not a bad choice, there are great classic horror, science fiction, slipstream, and even the biography of Philip K. Dick. There are 8 books, which seems to me a little but it certainly is a lot compared to a similar list had been made in 1989 or even in 1999 (I hasten to clarify that it is possible that I may have missed a title that I have many references, for example, David Foster Wallace "supposedly fun things Never again will I do "or" Hell "is not translated Tsutsui, looks like I either read it all).
And yet, I still have a certain resentment, a bitter taste in your mouth. Of course I am not so naive as to expect that authors appear here full of ghetto, which are published in Nova, Gigamesh, Minotaur, Bibliopolis, SWAT or the Factory of Ideas. Do not expect to find a China Mieville, Thomas Disch, William Gibson, George RR Martin, Ian McLeod, Neal Stephenson, Ian McDonald, John M. Harrison, IainBanks or similar. Not appear strange that a Ballard or Lem but it is possible that in this decade did not post his best works.
Now what is unforgivable is that no one has fixed that little jewel that is "Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell" by Susanna Clarke and instead if there is room for bestselleros clunkers like "The Bible of Clay by Julia Navarro ( at least not Matilde Asensi ...).
In short, times are changing but still should change a little more.

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About Books, Shelves and the New Times

supplement "The Cultural the daily "El Mundo" published for a couple of years a curious section in which famous English writers had that circumstances had succeeded in publishing his first work. The end result of each depended much on the writer of the moment but in general, I must admit I enjoyed the series. There was a phrase that stuck with me, one writer (unfortunately I do not remember the name) said to feel especially proud to have succeeded in publishing his first book in the publisher Anagrama, adding that was nearly all the publisher's books at home in a place of honor and pride filled him with being part of such equipment.
Well, then I came out Geek pride, to deny it, I glanced at my own shelves and thought: if I were a writer "in that collection I would have liked to publish? I have several responses crowded as impossible as the question itself. Of course, in the Minotaur, but the one before, obviously, not now. Or Nebular 2 nd time. Martínez Roca Sure would be nice, as well as overseas jobs.
Well, I think anyone can see that my shelves and writer of that are, say, a little bit different. Not only read science fiction, of course, but I know (and that's a personal failing of mine) that I frequented some contemporary authors of fiction geenral, let alone the English. There are few books on my shelves of anagram, or, for posts, or Tusquets Alfaguara, to speak of similar books. Yes there are many of the former Bruguera, of Alliance, Destination, Plaza & Janes and other pocket stamps, a division which, in general, these publishers have not been lavished on excess.
Everyone has their tastes, no doubt, but we must recognize that labels such as the above have not been very, very favorable to the fantastic (with the usual exceptions, of course). Or at least that happened in the past. Why now it seems that things are changing, and if not, you just have to see the winner and the finalist of last award Herralde novel (in Anagram): Life before March "by Manuel Gutierrez Aragon and" Providence "by Juan Francisco Ferré: they are both fantastic works, and even could take place within science fiction. And I use the conditional that the only information about it is that which appeared in newspapers and books Solpo that apparently seem to go in that direction. Well, I have them both here at hand, I have been curious. I doubt that replacing the old logo Minotaur in my little heart, but as I said very often on this blog, times are changing and truly amazing speed.

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My girlfriend left me for an external mouse

By Fabricio Simeoni and Fernando Marquinez

(Edit Post simultaneously with Interstitial )

My girlfriend left me for a mouse.
When I discovered his unwavering devotion to the great God Windows, it was too late. Had I known earlier, I had not chewed the last cheese, licking the trapper as if each eruption was done tongue sores oxide as if from nowhere emerged a kiss Camembert, the strength of the trap without assuming the coalition of higher serum virtual root. But a religion pixelated bears the evils of every creed and I know that mouse perfectly insane to just click icons meek before the rebellion. Opening and closing the cost of a link to another Milky Way, to a further precaution of spasms to complete that insipid spiral chain subject to the whim of the disposable. An atavistic corner causing sequences in strings, comments fired amid dripping fingers on keyboards. And she moved her hands quickly, for all the world wanted to get out of Google. And breathe deeply, before the error messages or downloaded music illegally. The preview was diluted a few meters of liquid crystal.
My girlfriend left me for a mouse.
And now I'm stumbling around, looking for community ancestors under the screens, waiting for a flood that we electrocute, stirring old skeletons from the fauna darling of a slide-show. We live disunited separated by the influence of a right click. Rest is the scene, seized the placidity of the heartache, the shooting script or stomach without getting naked bodies in the open without shelter from the light that numbs. About
nick saying "time is a tyrant, you're a fucking dwarf islands are now a scourge inappropriate pissed, I saw him on his msn as if all that love had gone to a pad infected by the devil. She put the key now an eloquent tradition "continued eating cheese fag, I left you a mouse." All of which suggests a figure of speech not available. I remember vividly when I said "no baby technology is invented to deceive the very instability that generates exist."
I also changed the nickname "you're the illusion that illuminates each ventricle of my life" because "you're a bitch." We can not breathe the same nectar, we seek to update the toolbar without us flooding your home. I have no longer lying in bed with her tits embedded in the ceiling fan blades, and do not put butter on toast every morning in infertile when the blood builds up until it falls the candy. I want more, now dancing on the sidewalk with a rodent's sphincter and insurance will propel the infinite as subject to the risk of another window.
My girlfriend left me for a mouse.
If only the duties of this conversation the Microsoft pay, because my love is priceless and sways like a body usurped before the watchful eyes of the bloggers.
Morning hits this time as if dawn had not previously, or shock, or this time. Life imprisonment is the best welcome in these parts of interventions ossified. The return of the boys out another reader to finish avoiding the end of the night with the alleged warmth of a lackluster script and I still wonder what the sex of a mouse, make love after a double click.
hacked your password If there would be another story, but I never dared.
could barely talk to her again a couple of times, the death of a mutual friend seemed to yield an excellent opportunity. I thought the pain would restore our connection, but only got a "what wrong, Tito died, his funeral I saw on You tube, can not believe he had a wide band that was a ray of light, yesterday was posting on your facebook . 'In our second meeting, via chat, because she no longer tolerate my presence, coolly whispered his new leitmotif: "the virtual is like molasses, yes, honey is one thing and do not remember, because it was on other hardware" and at least attempt sidetracked let out a curt: "I think to try a new antivirus, soon the world will be unbearable without diving suits."
My girlfriend left me for a mouse. A fatwa
expected to last restart, the emoticons provide a maniac last stroke in the sewers of the monitors. I have no password miserable but still, nothing and nobody can stop
When you delete the last photo hosted on the web I will be freed from all traces and it will play only a minor role in the recycle bin.
My girlfriend left me for a mouse. Llueven
cables over the rooftops, but I did not serve. I just look for a wireless amnesia, something clear once and for all temporary files that passion to be exhausted.