theparisreview:

All American fiction is young-adult fiction … to be an American adult has always been to be a symbolic figure in someone else’s coming-of-age story. And that’s no way to live. It is a kind of moral death in a culture that claims youthful self-invention as the greatest value. We can now avoid this fate. The elevation of every individual’s inarguable likes and dislikes over formal critical discourse, the unassailable ascendancy of the fan, has made children of us all. We have our favorite toys, books, movies, video games, songs, and we are as apt to turn to them for comfort as for challenge or enlightenment.”

For more of this morning’s roundup, click here.

Gli Urania del nonno erano per me la parte scura della letteratura. In quegli smilzi volumetti che mi attiravano e mi repellevano insieme il mio spirito tremebondo trovava tutta l’oscena oltranza che non trovava negli altri libri. Mi convinsi così, verso gli otto anni di età, che Il piccolo principe o Il libro della giungla fossero le prime tappe di un lungo processo iniziatico che mi avrebbe portato, dopo decenni e decenni di letture, a poter finalmente leggere, come il nonno, Il terrore dalla sesta luna di Robert Heinlein. E nomi come quelli di Heinlein, di Sheckley, di Clarke, di Simak, di Wyndham, di Matheson, di Silverberg, di Pohl, di Van Vogt formavano per me il supremo canone della letteratura occidentale, corona di spiriti superiori eletti dai mostri a rivelare agli umani le mostruose leggi dell’universo: e solo dubitavo, ammirandoli, se fossero ancora persone o se invece, assunti a tale stremo di conoscenza, non partecipassero essi stessi, nelle loro membra, di quella mostruosità. «Wyndham, Wyndham» sussurravo, e quel suono mi sembrava un vento proveniente da una città morta; «Simak, Simak», e sentivo serrarsi chele gigantesche; «Pohl», ed era una bolla, un’unica bolla, affiorante dal lago di melma ove si occultava la Bestia.

Michele Mari, Tu, sanguinosa infanzia

Unseen Octavia E Butler stories recovered | Books | theguardian.com

“When I began writing science fiction, when I began reading, heck, I wasn’t in any of this stuff I read. The only black people you found were occasional characters or characters who were so feeble-witted that they couldn’t manage anything, anyway. I wrote myself in, since I’m me and I’m here and I’m writing.”

Unseen Octavia E Butler stories recovered | Books | theguardian.com

You can’t own a human being. You can’t lose what you don’t own. Suppose you did own him. Could you really love somebody who was absolutely nobody without you? You really want somebody like that? Somebody who falls apart when you walk out the door? You don’t, do you? And neither does he. You’re turning over your whole life to him. Your whole life, girl. And if it means so little to you that you can just give it away, hand it to him, then why should it mean any more to him? He can’t value you more than you value yourself.

Toni Morrison, Song of Solomon