Holding a table for half and hour right in the middle of the lunchtime crowd – “I’m waiting for somebody” – “I’m sorry, I’m waiting for somebody” – and so nobody comes and nobody comes, and so finally she had to order and shove the stuff down in a big rush, and so now she’d have heartburn. On top of pique, umbrage and ennui. Oh, the French diseases of the soul.
– from The Lathe of Heaven
[This is actually the first thing I ever read by Le Guin*. Which is shocking, because it is brilliant, a very nicely done novel on very perilous writing grounds. Le Guin handles George Orr, her anti-hero who changes the world when he dreams, wakes up to a Portland fucked up in various oneiric ways, like a boss. I don’t know how else to say it. The Lathe of Heaven is the kind of book that makes you want to leaf back a couple of pages as you read, in the best possible way, to check out all the foreshadowing and clues you no doubt missed.]
*[Can this be blamed on some “literary” fiction scene prejudice thingy, ignoring major works because they happen to have a stray robot, or alien, or something in them, rather than on my own flaws? I hope so.]