Pages made from paper.

I find it so ridiculous that the only English subject

to do with scifi & fantasy that you can do at any of the Universities in Sydney is ‘Young adult fiction and fantasy’. What on earth? I understand that both genres are looked down on by the academic community but how is this even possible?!

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I just want to drop out of uni and watch Buffy/Angel all day everyday

but then I won’t finish my degree and I wont be able to lecture about scifi/fantasy and the importance of Buffy, A Song Of Ice And Fire, Star Trek and Robin Hobb.

Everyone on the Joss Whedon tag is going crazy

saying that it’s misogynistic, because of the ‘mewling quim’ line and minority female characters. But what I don’t understand is why this is surprising? Look at MOST (I said most, not all) of the fantasy genre, the only strong female characters in Salvador’s Legend of Drizzt are his evil family and Catter-brie, in Hobb’s Farseer trilogy Kettriken, Molly and Patience are really the only strong female characters. That’s the way it’s always been in Fantasy, and yes it’s starting to change, but what do you expect? Most comics are written by men who hang out exclusively with men. 

Does anybody else get the image of Cersei from Game Of Thrones?

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out 80 
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion; 85
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended 90 
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, 95 
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale 100 
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
“Jug Jug” to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms 105 
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair,
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. 110 

“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
I think we are in rats’ alley 115 
Where the dead men lost their bones.