![]() ![]() Even on paper it gets a lot of hostility out of you, so that your nights aren’t troubled by dreams of murder. Ah, the smell of burning flesh, the spectacle of blackened bodies collapsing. So back I go to the domes of Titan and my redheaded heroine deathraying down the warlord’s minions. True, I reply, but both activities are pleasurable, and we maiden ladies lead lives that are notoriously short on pleasure. A filthy habit you say, though I’m not sure if you’re referring to smoking cigars or writing science fiction. ![]() I light up a cigar and settle down to write another chapter of The Warlord of Saturn’s Moons. ![]() ![]() Whatever became of my childhood ambitions: joining the space patrol winning a gold medal at the Olympics climbing Mount Everest alone in my bathing suit, sustained only by my indomitable will and strange psychic arts learned from Hindu mystics? The saddest words of tongue or pen are something-or-other what might have been, I think. I can see myself at fifty, fat and a little crazy, making cucumber sandwiches for tea, and I view my future with mixed feelings. THE WARLORD OF SATURN’S MOONS ELEANOR ARNASON Here I am, a silver-haired maiden lady of thirty-five, a feeder of stray cats, a window-ledge gardener, well on my way to the African violet and antimacassar stage. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |