Some weeks ago I blogged about the Slate review of Michael Chabon's latest and how ridiculously narrow-minded it was (or at least came across as) in regards to genre fiction. Well, Ursula LeGuin was rather put out by that as well--especially by the claim that "Michael Chabon has spent considerable energy trying to drag the decaying corpse of genre fiction out of the shallow grave where writers of serious literature abandoned it."--and decided to write a wonderfully witty response, which was posted on Boing Boing:
Something woke her in the night. Was it steps she heard, coming up the stairs — somebody in wet training shoes, climbing the stairs very slowly … but who? And why wet shoes? It hadn’t rained. There, again, the heavy, soggy sound. But it hadn’t rained for weeks, it was only sultry, the air close, with a cloying hint of mildew or rot, sweet rot, like very old finiocchiona, or perhaps liverwurst gone green. There, again — the slow, squelching, sucking steps, and the foul smell was stronger. Something was climbing her stairs, coming closer to her door. As she heard the click of heel bones that had broken through rotting flesh, she knew what it was. But it was dead, dead!Read the rest of it here.
Thanks to Matthew Kressel of Sybil's Garage and Senses Five Press for pointing it out.