From The Author
Heroic fantasy—the term has a special resonance for me.
At times an even greater resonance than Sci-Fi. I am not, I hasten to add, suggesting that we forget or downplay the fact that all of heroic fantasy is but a part of the vast expanse of Sci-Fi; indeed, it was while I was probing that inordinately spacious, fascinating house called Sci-Fi with a child’s fresh passion and awe that I came across, in a large, dimly-lit chamber that smelled of mold and secrets, a pile of boxes whose wantonly packed contents were heroic fantasy.
Still, heroic fantasy—how those words themselves, like a voluptuous spell, rang with magic for me from the very beginning.
Heroic fantasy—tales that belong essentially to the night and that must forever retain the aspect of nightmares that fevers make us see.
Heroic fantasy—the toy box, essentially, of a mad child who refused to grow up, who never left the nursery. The enchantress that a hunkering man with bright blue eyes named Howard met before he made sure he'd never learn of his mother’s death.
And, alas, for me, the shady, seductive spell shows no sign of ever letting go of its new sacrificial victim.
—Kaoru Kurimoto
