I have a confession to make. I have a new favorite author - Card. Orson-Scott Card, writer of the Ender Series, genius, prophet, empath - and more. Yes Le Guin, I still idolize you. I still envy how you can make the words you write dance, come alive with life. Not just form pictures in your readers’ minds, but sweep them up in harmony. Your words are music, and they breath life for anyone who read them. Your work, if ever it is to be classified should never be put under literature, for it is art. I envy you your eloquence, I am light-years behind. Wait for me.
And of course, how could I not mention Martin in this article of worship? To Martin I attribute my envy of a writer’s gift for great character creation. To imagine, and create not just a name, a description for a face, body, mannerisms to that name, to let loose that name in a world of fiction - and then bring it to life. The skill to weave that many characters, complete with complexities, and inanities real people have is true genius.
And now Card (I will be including Kress here in the future, but as of now that I’ve read only two of her books, my judgment of her is still incomplete) brings to the table a complete picture. Not a parade of a great writers here to entertain me, but successive geniuses dropped on my lap purposefully. In the end, it only tells me what I’ve known for a long time ever since I wrote Fate: decoded. But what the hell, so I’m being irrelevant by saying this. What the hell again? I’m built this way, and I’m built to endure this way. That even knowing to the core how all our life is an illusion, I still choose to live it as real. Legends was the first of a great many landmarks, but it certainly wasn’t the first. Only the most obvious. Occam’s razor - how ironic I had to learn what it meant and beat myself with it.
But you see now don’t you? The increasing number of de ja vu’s for each person each generation. I don’t even think I’m the first to get this many, this severe. Only that I’m the only one I know who’s been allowed to write it. If it’s been written before, then I haven’t read it. Or the thread touched on an entirely different matter than the one I’m pointing out in here. Then it’s beyond the point to explain. Those who will understand me, already figured it out on their own. And those who can’t, will never do, even if I show them a road map, pointed, and led them by the hand. And there are those who refused to accept. Because accepting it as true hurts. And what universal truth have we learned so far about truth? That it hurts. And damn it to hell, if it hurts, it must be more than true. But I am no Ohmsford, and this matter is no Sword of Shannara everyone can pick up and remain whole after.
I’ve tried to write my theory through a story. But the words would not come. Perhaps because I’m not allowed to tell it, or perhaps I’m just too unworthy to do so. At the hierarchy of geniuses, I rank so far up as Kress’ toenail clippings. And that’s saying a lot. I could’ve threaded that path as well, had all the components necessary, but two roads diverged - and I, I took the one everyone used. Or did I? Therein lies the problem. But you gave me Card, so either you want me to know that most truths arrive only circular conclusions, or else you want me thinking it is. But if you know that I will know that you will know…
But how could I second-guess the one who created me? In so much as an AI can ever second-guess his programmer, I’ll probably never even reach that far. But I hope I’ve touched a nerve somewhere. Our sense of perception is limited, because the world we live in limits it. As would be the case for computer programs who are locked in binary codes and electrical impulses between circuits and chips.
The crux of the matter is if following all illusions, I would find truth.
But my life, that’s what you want me to tell, is it? You gave me the Speaker for the Dead - and you want me to speak of myself. How strong do you think I am, that I could look into the abyss of myself, and speak my story as a true speaker would? I am not Shea, I could not bring myself to go back there, and then expose myself to the world. Whatever you made me, you did not make me humble. You shaped me into someone like Bean, but left me enough humanity to feel like Ender. Locked in a constant struggle to maintain my humanity, yet on the fringes always desiring greatness. Yet you took that greatness away from me. You shaped me, just as you needed me. And you wasted half of my life to do it. Before I do what I have to do, before I write whatever you want me to write, give me a glimpse - tell me a lie. Give me sweet poison, and I will drink it with gladness.
But no more of this yank and pull stuff. I am ready. Give me the tools, and set me to work.
My path has been trailblazed by others before. It should not be that hard after the grinder you put me through. And yes, no more for my son. Or I go on strike.
Yes, funny if I subscribe to irrelevances. But then, I’m built this way - so fuck you!
—
The power of hegemony, is that achieved by a benevolent group,
humankind can actually achieve peace and end all hunger and death. The
craziness of it is that though humans are more or less rational, we are
also more or less ruled by our passions. In the right hands, it is
deliverance, and in the wrong ones - well, I believe in hell, right?
The paradox, and what really annoys, is that passion cannot be
separated from the rational. And the greatest of men aiming to do good
better be passionate at what they do, or we are more than lost to the
megalomaniacs of this world.
The final solution is for everyone to step into the shoes of those
they hate most. For liberals to think like fascists, for secularists to
entertain religion, for atheists to believe in a God, vice-versa.
and then everyone would see that we’re not that much different from
each other. that what makes us tick is also what makes our adversaries
tick. and that in the end, they are not our adversaries at all.
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