Recently I read a novella that posed a really deep question: What would happen if physical property could be duplicated like an MP3 file? What if a poor society could prosper simply by making pirated copies of cars, clothes, or drugs that cure fatal illnesses?
via www.wired.com
Stumbled across this provocative article about why Science Fiction (as a writing genre) is the last bastion of philosophical writing (from Jan '08) while doing some catch up reading this Sunday and then coincidentally, TTBook (To The Best of Our Knowledge radio program) did a program with George R.R. Martin and Ursula K LeGuinn and S. Joshi – a biographer of H.P. Lovecraft broadcast on KQED/KALW and available at Ttbook.org that was just a joy to listen to on the evening walk.
Whether you agree that Science Fiction is or is not the "last great literature of ideas", both the article and the radio program are worth your time if you are any kind of reader of any genre at all. Lovely to hear these accomplished authors talk about the subject. Here's an excerpt of the radio program – George R.R. Martin reading from his commentary in his book Dreamsongs (available as audio CD at Amazon) – as beautiful a paen to reading as I've ever seen:
Why do I love fantasy?….[snipped]
The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real for a moment at least…that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is tofu and beans and ashes at the end.
Reality is the strip malls of Burbank and the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the Towers of Ministereth, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, Reality on Southwest airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true? We read fantasy to find the colors again I think, to taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day, he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the follow hills, and find a love to lasts forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La. They can keep their heaven, when I die, I'd sooner go to Middle Earth.
George R.R. Martin – Commentary exceprt from Dreamsongs
Brought back memories of summer vacation reading binges, tearing through Jules Verne, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Herge (TinTin), even Enid Blyton (not quite fantasy but for a kid in India, tales of islands and camping, castles and kidnappers, boarding schools and bounders were near enough) – anything that would transport you away from the unbearable heat and restlessness of summer.
I'll omit LeGuinn's commentary and some of the writings of Lovecraft's philosophy quoted by Joshi but they're well worth a listen at the Ttbook.org site. I know that moving on from this world, instead of some pastel heaven, I might be just as happy on a balloon chase around the world with Passepartout in tow or rowing across to Kirrin Island to camp out for the night and watch for smugglers or battling robots with Magnus, the Robot-Fighter or from more recent reads – trying to lay low in Terry Pratchett's Ankh-Morpork with Lord Vetinari and the stalwart Sam Vimes to keep company.
MANORATHA 
