The Only Reason There's Such

I Have An Unconscious Burglar Living In My Mind: If I Read Something, It's Mine. I Can Read Middle English Stories, Geoffrey Chaucer Or Sir Thomas Malory, But Once I Start Moving In The Direction Of Contemporary Fantasy, My Mind Begins To Take Over.

I Hesitate To Predict Whether This Theory Is True. But If The General Opinion Of Mankind Is Optimistic Then We're In For A Period Of Extreme Popularity For Science Fiction.

Contemporary Fantasists All Bow Politely To Lord Tennyson And Papa Tolkien, Then Step Around Them To Go Back To The Original Texts For Inspiration--and There Are A Lot Of Those Texts. We Have King Arthur And His Gang In English; We've Got Siegfried And Brunhild In German; Charlemagne And Roland In French; El Cid In Spanish; Sigurd The Volsung In Icelandic; And Assorted 'myghtiest Knights On Lyfe' In A Half-dozen Other Cultures. Without Shame, We Pillage Medieval Romance For All We're Worth.

Behold The Drojim Palace," King Urgit Said Extravagantly To Sadi, "the Hereditary Home Of The House Of Urga." "a Most Unusual Structure, You Majesty," Sadi Murmured. "that's A Diplomatic Way To Put It." Urgit Looked Critically At His Palace. "it's Gaudy, Ugly, And In Terribly Bad Taste. It Does, However, Suit My Personality Almost Perfectly.

Misty Sendaria," Silk Said Ironically. "sometimes I'm Amazed That The Entire Kingdom Doesn't Rust Shut.