Nothing is Ordinary

Last year, I rediscovered science fiction. This is not a new phase in my life; it's fairly consistent, comes and goes in waves, and usually coincides with periods of extreme stress and uncertainty. So it comes as no surprise to me that science fiction, yet again, became the crutch that helped me bring some semblance of reason back to an increasingly disorienting time. But when I say crutch, do I mean escapism? In so far as we all read to escape, science fiction is escapism, certainly, more so than most genres. But it's also a fiction of ideas. Arguably, that's why I read the genre. There's a peculiar pleasure in seeing science fiction authors take things like robots and telepathy in a matter of fact way. It's more than escapism: it's a bunch of characters who take pleasure in reality, who still find it in themselves to be surprised. Arkady Martine's book was a surprise, especially considering that it's not saying much that's entirely new in the genre