But Tell Me, Where Do The Children Play?


Science fiction used to be the home of dangerous ideas.

Growing up in the 1960’s and 1970’s, I needed that.  I was a strange child, with few friends and no close connections.  I didn’t fit in anywhere, not at home, not at school,  not in the suburban residential neighborhood that I wandered through, lonely as a cloud.

Pretty much the only place that I could feel I belonged was the library.  I read voraciously, and I discovered an entire class of books that dealt with the strange, the things that didn’t fit.  The things like me.

From science fiction I learned that I was not alone, not sui generis. Other people had the same kind of oddball corkscrew mind I had.  Because science fiction (and fantasy, although my hometown library didn’t make that distinction and put everything that was set someplace else in one section) wasn’t supposed to be

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