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
