Michael Cisco Quotes

Poetry restores language by breaking it, and I think that much contemporary writing restores fantasy, as a genre of writing in contrast to a genre of commodity or a section in a bookstore, by breaking it. Michael Moorcock revived fantasy by prying it loose from morality; writers like Jeff VanderMeer, Stepan Chapman, Lucius Shepard, Jeffrey Ford, Nathan Ballingrud are doing the same by prying fantasy away from pedestrian writing, with more vibrant and daring styles, more reflective thinking, and a more widely broadcast spectrum of themes.

Although unavailable for analysis the moment it happens, being struck a violent blow on the head is a very interesting experience.

The wind seems to be blowing through the gaps in the conversation like the rushing of empty space.

With great profundity I note the pleasure one gets or takes in pushing wheeled objects, as opposed to the depression involved in pulling them.

The sky all at once is overhead dim and grey, puzzle of blocks sprawl, their own horizon; the city looks like a cemetery full of weak daylight, cool and a little wrong, making Ella feel a little put upon, like leap-year day - nothing in itself, but a nudge jostling every other day.

I learned always to avoid glorious campaigns - everyone is more likely to die in glorious campaigns.

Echoing streets melt into dark autumn rooms - melt to black plastic bags inflated by the wind and spinning on playground blacktop like free-floating punctuation ... the horizon is just a line and past it there's only black dark ... that rolls toward her as she walks in its direction ... smooth-worn wooden chairs at the bakery where ella sits tea on the table in front of her, it's getting dark but the girl behind the counter hasn't turned on a single light yet ... Ella animal staring into the street: Did I ever touch him?

She starkly sees her inanimate future blocked out before her right through to her own end - without him ...
... and worst of all, she knows she will be asked about him and be called upon to talk about him and tell the story again and again ... her jaws will work without end with all that talking her jaws will chew up the ravel of all her remaining life, telling the same story until it becomes bare and alien and something blunt to her; more the belonging of other people, and no longer hers.
Now she has to live ordinarily ... she's going to have to numb herself if she's going to go on - no going on from this point without getting numb.

Eyes, black and glistening like deep wells, narrow to two happy crescents