Quotes from Hal Duncan

It's the doors that make a prison, he says, not the walls. The doors you don't even try to open.

Welcome to Erehwyna!

So they fucked wild, Puk astride at first, then turned, to his hands and knees, to be tupped under Jaq's hunching thrusts, hips and shoulder and fists of hair yanked back, for the prick to ram jam bam and cram him, till he felt it fill him, and he'd swear to cock, the jism spouted into and through him and out his own spurting prick.

Hope is determination, you think. Hope is desperation. Hope is a yearning you can't deny. And hope is just plain old-fashioned insanity.

He is encompassed himself, in the steering clasp of hand on shoulder and scrubber-fluffed noggin bobbing in prayer to the gods of cock, filled with grace from the sacred font of the phallus.

Standing? says Jak. Ouais, standing, intercrural, AKA the sumata of the Samurai, the Oxford Style , the Princeton First-Year , the Ivy League Rub . Good enough for ensigns of industry, Shaka Zulu, Alexander the Great. The Altercatio Ganymedis et Helene has Zeus extoll the slippery thighs of a boy, as Billy Greene swooned over Lincoln's, as perfect as a human being could be, he said.

You want a crime to torture yourself for, try cowardice . The only sin that ever mattered a shit is the shame that put us all here. Fuck, I didn't give you that power just so you could judge yourselves . I gave you the power so you could judge God .

So the question is ... You wanna be a Scruffian or not?

Fuck the epistemic modality; this is alethic modality we're talking now, not factuality but possibility.

See, you have the choice we didn't. You wanna think about it though, you do, before you decide to throw your lot in with us. Cause it's not just about living in society's stitches, you know, the bits in between, the squats and secret places. It's about being Fixed.

For some the label sci-fi is just a shortand for science fiction, an alternative to sf gesturing at ... you know, that stuff we like.

I likes me some 'Shit Blows Up' fiction, don't get me wrong.

Every epic, my friend Jack used to say, should start with a burning map.

The quirky flavourings of the idiosyncratic ideologue ultimately drowned in the ketchup of redheaded twins and nipples that go spung.

Jack in and jerk off, kid! You too can save the world ... from those evil, bug-eyed commies from space!

So, fuck 'em, we say. Fuck the mundane of Mainstream, the elitists of Literature. We're GENRE FICTION and proud of it, proud to wear that brand painted on the backs of our biker's jackets.

Cause what do groanhuffs know? All's they've done is heard our tales and passed em along in a game of Chinese Whispers, getting em all mixed up, like.

Come Inanna, enter, Neti said to her, and as Inanna entered the first gate, the sugurra, crown of the steppe, was taken from her head. - What is this? asked Inanna - Quiet, Inanna, she was told. The customs of the city of the dead are perfect. They may not be questioned.

Fuck, if only 'aesthetic idiom' didn't sound so damn poncy.

the crescent sun is high, the moon low; life is not for the faint-hearted; so why the fuck should art be?